lucyshanxu

By this tune she stood to lose either way. We went back to the bed: what ensued was, for me at least, pure discomfort, and it was of a nature to become an unpleasant memory for her, too, whether she enjoyed it at the time or not. It was embarrassing because she abandoned herself completely to an elaborate gratitude that implied her own humiliation -- and because my own mood was not complementary to hers. Her condition remained semi-hysterical and masochistic: she scarcely permitted me to move, flagellated herself verbally, and treated me like a visiting deity. No doubt about it, the old girl had been hard up; she did her best to make grand opera out of nature's littlecantus firmus, and if she didn't succeed it was more my fault than hers, for she strove elaborately. Another time I might have enjoyed it -- that sort of voluptuous groveling can be as pleasant to indulge as it is on occasion to indulge in -- but that day was not my day. That day had begun badly, had developed tediously, and was climaxing uncomfortably, if not distastefully: I was always uneasy with women who took their sexual transports too seriously, and Miss Rankin was not the sort whom one could leave shuddering and moaning on the bed knowing it was all just good clean fun. That is how I left her, at five o'clock. At four forty-five she had begun, as I'd rather expected, to express hatred for me, whether feigned (this kind of thing can be sensuous sport) or sincere I couldn't say, since her eyes were closed and her face averted. What she said, throatily, was "God damn your eyes, God damn your eyes, God damn your eyes. . ." in rhythm with what happened to be in progress at the time, and I was not so committed to my mood that it didn't strike me as funny. But I was weary of dramatics, genuine or not, amusing or not, and when things reached their naturaldenouement I was glad enough to make my exit, forgetting entirely about Miss Rankin's keys. The lady had talent, but no discipline. I'm sure we neither wished to see the other again. I ate at a roadstand outside Wicomico and finally got back to my room at six-thirty, feeling terrible. I was a man of considerable integrity within the limits of a given mood, but I was short on endurance. I felt bad already about this Peggy Rankin -- irritated that at her age she hadn't yet learned how to handle her position, how to turn its regrettable aspects as much as possible to her own advantage --and at the same time very much sympathetic with her weakness. I had, abstractly at least, a tremendous sympathy for that sort of weakness -- a person's inability either to control his behavior by his own standards or to discipline his standards, down to the last shred of conscience, to fit his behavior -- even though in particular situations it sometimes annoyed me. Everything that had happened with Miss Rankin could have been high sport -- the groveling, the hysterics, the numerous other things that I've not felt like sharing by recording them -- had she kept hard control of her integrity; but her error, I feared, was that she would recriminate herself for some time afterwards for having humbled herself in fact, and not in fun, and mine was in not walking out when I'd started to, regardless of her hysterics. Had I done so I'd have preserved my own tranquillity and allowed Miss Rankin to regain hers by despising me instead of both of us. I had remained, I think, both out of a sense of chivalry, to which I often inclined though I didn'tbelieve in it, and out of a characteristic disinclination to walk out on any show, no matter how poor or painful, once I'd seen the first act. But there was a length of time beyond which I could not bear to be actively displeased with myself, and when that time began to announce its approach -- about seven-fifteen -- I went to sleep. Only the profundity and limited duration of my moods kept me from being a suicide: as it was, this practice of mine of going to bed when things got too awful, this deliberate termination of my day, was itself a kind of suicide, and served its purpose just as efficiently. My moods were little men, and when I killed them they stayed completely dead.

American youth apparel brand, Cheap abercrombie classic shirts sale led the trend, decadent uninhibited. A & F clothes prominent chest, waist, hip, totally personal, sexy extraordinary. Authentic A & F version of the U.S. type, is a popular brand of American youth chasing its high price is also well known. Casual wear brand from the United States Abercrombie and Fitch Classic Shirts, younger in the United States over the popular local clothing brand, popular around the world from the United States, mainly young, take the casual route. Super good clothing texture, design outstanding for a very sought-after Asian body. Abercrombie clothes interesting ideas is that he is changing almost every quarter. Cheap abercrombie classic shirts sale's advertising is the use of young people like all music, sports and other situations, the performance of Abercrombie and Fitch Tee Shirts clothing meaning. Actually, A & F dress style as "cool" element, not inborn. Simple and neat design, easy to match with any dress, whether it is T shirt or a shirt, jacket is a good choice. Awesome pants, make up the deficiency your body curves, only be used once, it will become the brand's loyal customers. With different tops with different styles, light color, you sweet, pleasant, dark, and cool too special. With different footwear can match.Abercrombie Fitch type version through the fitting lines, so that casual scent with the stylish, sexy married one. Abercrombie and Fitch Polo Shirts is taking the Southern California style. West has a deep imprint. Abercrombie Fitch products in the 100 yuan to 2,000 yuan range, compassionate cut well, to reflect the lines, great jeans western decadent feeling. Abercrombie and Fitch Polos brand to add new vitality. From A & f clothing began to glow with youthful vitality. In Jeffries opinion, consumers want a high quality, giving the young mind of the classic American clothing. The finest cotton fabric is very comfortable, breathable, soft to the touch.

I can't pick locks." "Oh, I didn't mean that! My motel is just across the bridge. I was wondering if you'd run me over there, if you're going that way. I have another key in my suitcase." It is small sport shooting the bird who perches on the muzzle of your gun, but what hunter could keep from doing it? "All right." The whole situation was without appeal, and as I drove Miss Peggy Rankin (her name) over the bridge from Ocean City to the mainland, I was made more desultory by the fact that I guessed she didn't deserve to be so severely judged. She appeared to be fairly intelligent, and indeed, had I been her husband I should doubtless have been proud that my wife still retained such trimness and spirit at age forty. But I was not her husband, and so I made no such allowances: she was a forty-year-old pickup, and only the most extraordinary charm could survive that classification. All the way to the motel Miss Rankin chattered, and I honestly didn't hear a word of it. For me this was unusual, because, although I admired the ability to lose oneself in oneself, I was far too conscious of my surroundings, as a rule, ever to manage it. A real point against Miss Rankin, that. "This is the place," she said presently, indicating the Surfside, or Seaside, or some such motel along the highway. I pulled into the driveway and parked. "Gee, I sure appreciate your doing this. Thanks a lot." She moved lightly out of the car. "I'll take you back," I said, without any particular inflection. "Oh, would you?" She was very pleased, but not overwhelmed with either surprise or gratitude. "Just a minute, while I run get my keys." "Have you got anything cold to drink in there, Peggy? I'm pretty dry." This was as far as I was willing to go in the nonsense line just then: I decided that if she didn't ask me in, I'd take off at once for Wicomico. "Sure, come on in," she invited, again not entirely stunned by my request. "There's no refrigerator in the room, but there's a soda fountain right next door here, and I've got whiskey. Why don't you get two large ginger ales, with lots of ice, and we'll make highballs." I did, and we drank in her little room, she curled on the bed and I slouched in the single chair. The gloom was still on me, but it grew somewhat easier to endure; especially when we found that we could talk or not talk with a reasonable degree of ease. At one point, as might be expected, Miss Rankin asked me what I did for a living. Now, I didn't necessarily subscribe at all to honesty as a policy in adventures of this sort, and I can't imagine myself answering such stock questions truthfully as a rule; but "I'm a potential instructor of prescriptive grammar at the Wicomico State Teachers College" is so nearly the type of answer one usually dreams up at such moments that without really thinking about it I told her the truth. "Is that so!" Peggy was genuinely surprised and pleased this time. "I graduated from WTC myself -- so long ago it embarrasses me to remember! I teach English at the high school in Wicomico. Isn't that a funny coincidence? Two English teachers!" I agreed that it was, but in fact I was so appalled that I felt like turning in my highball and calling it quits. It was necessary to move very rapidly to keep the whole situation from disintegrating. There was only a half inch of highball left in my paper cup: I tossed it down, dropped the cup into the wastebasket, immediately went to the bed, where my colleague lay propped on one elbow, and embraced her with someélan. She opened her mouth at once under my kiss and thrust her tongue between my teeth. Both of us had our eyes quite open, and I was pleased to accept that fact symbolically.Let there be no horse manure between teachers of English , I declared to myself, and without more ado gave the zipper of her bathing suit a meaningful yank. Miss Rankin froze: her eyes closed tightly and she clutched my shoulders, but my ungentle attack was not repulsed. The zipper undid her down to the small of her back and so gave me access to a certain amount of innocuous skin, but I could go no farther without her assistance. "Let's take your bathing suit off, Peggy," I suggested cordially. This injured her. "You're in a great hurry, aren't you, Jake?" she said quietly and more or less bitterly. "Well, Peg, we're old enough not to be any sillier than we have to be." She made a noise in her mouth, and, still holding my shoulders, pressed her forehead against my chest and began to cry a bit. "By that you mean I'm too old for you to bother being silly with, don't you?" she observed between sobs. "You're thinking that a woman my age can't afford to be coy." Fresh tears. Everybody was digging truth out of me. "Why hurt yourself?" I asked over her hair to the whiskey bottle on the night stand. "You're the one that's doing the hurting," Miss Rankin wept, looking me square in the eye through her tears. "You go out of your way to let me know you're doing me a favor by picking me up, but your generosity doesn't include wasting a little time being gentle!" She flung herself, not violently, upon her pillow, burying her face in it. "It doesn't make the least bit of difference to you whether I'm bright or stupid or what, does it? I might even be more interesting than you are, since I'm a little older!" This last piece of self-castigation, while it choked her completely for a moment, made her mad enough to sit up and glare at me defiantly. "I'm sorry," I offered politely. I was thinking that even if she were talented as, say, Beatrice Lillie, is talented, one would not pick her up in order to witness a theatrical performance: one would purchase a theater ticket. "Sorry you wasted your time on me, you mean!" Peggy cried. "Just making me defend myself is awful enough!" Back to the pillow. Up again at once. "Don't you understand how you make me feel? Today is my last day at Ocean City. For two whole weeks not a soul has spoken to me or even looked at me, except some horrible old men. Not asoul! Most women look awful at my age, but I don't look awful: I just don't look like a child. There's a lotmore to me, damn it! And then on the last day you come along and pick me up, bored as you can be with the whole thing, and treat me like a whore!" Well, she was correct, of course. "I'm a cad," I agreed readily, and rose to leave. There was a little more to this matter than Miss Rankin was willing to see, but in the main she had a pretty clear view of things. Her mistake, in the long run, was articulating her protest. The game was spoiled now, of course: I had assigned to Miss Rankin the role of Forty-Year-Old Pickup, a delicate enough character for her to bring off successfully in my current mood; I had no interest whatever in the quite complex (and no doubt interesting, from another point of view) human being she might be apart from that role. What she should have done, it seems to me, assuming she was after the same thing I was after, was assign me a role gratifying to her own vanity -- say, The Fresh But Unintelligent Young Man Whose Body One Uses For One's Pleasure Without Otherwise Taking Him Seriously -- and then we could have pursued our business with no wounds inflicted on either side. As it was, my present feeling, though a good deal stronger, was essentially the same feeling one has when a filling-station attendant or a cabdriver launches into his life-story: As a rule, and especially when one is in a hurry or is grouchy, one wishes the man to be nothing more difficult than The Obliging Filling-Station Attendant or The Adroit Cabdriver. These are the essences you have assigned them, at least temporarily, for your own purposes, as a taleteller makes a man The Handsome Young Poet or The Jealous Old Husband; and while you know very well that no historical human being was everjust an Obliging Filling-Station Attendant or a Handsome Young Poet, you are nevertheless prepared to ignore your man's charming complexities --must ignore them, in fact, if you are to get on with the plot, or get things done according to schedule. Of this, more later, for it is related to Mythotherapy. Enough now to say that we are all casting directors a great deal of the time, if not always, and he is wise who realizes that his role-assigning is at best an arbitrary distortion of the actors' personalities; but he is even wiser who sees in addition that this arbitrariness is probably inevitable, and at any rate is apparently necessary if one would reach the ends he desires. Which brings me back to Miss Peggy Rankin. "Get your keys," I said. "I'll wait for you out in the car." "No!Jake !" she fairly shrieked, and jumped off the bed. I was caught at the door and embraced from behind, under my arms. "Oh, God, don't go away yet!" Hysteria. "Please, don't run out on me now! I'm sorry I made you angry!" She was pulling me as hard as she could, back into the room. "Come on now; cut it out. Get hold of yourself." A forty-year-old pickup's beauty, when it is preserved at all, is fragile, and Peggy's hysteria, added to her previous weeping, left little of loveliness in her face, which normally was long, tan, unwrinkled, and not unattractive.