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ILLAGE - THE PALEOLITHIC ERA - DAY
</b><b>
</b> A small caveman community made up of five large caves, all
facing out towards a crackling fire.
<b>
</b> Slack-jawed, yet strong and confident CAVEMEN stumble about,
dragging haunches of meat, pounding the dirt with sticks,
dragging the women.
<b>
</b> WE PAN OVER to a small cave. Not even really a cave at all,
but a crack in the rocks barely large enough to sleep in.
Stepping out of this "cave" is a small, weak, nerdy-looking
caveman.
<b>
</b> The chief caveman, set apart by the large mallet he wields,
steps towards the fire and grunts loudly to mark the
beginning of a caveman meeting.
<b>
</b> "Loser caveman" steps forward apprehensively, only to be met
with laughter from the other cavemen. "Loser caveman" sighs
and shrinks back into his sad, little cave, watching them
from the shadows.
<b>
</b><b> CHIEF CAVEMAN
</b> (grunting; subtitled)
Me see beast today. Beast scary.
Beast danger for caveman.
<b>
</b> The rest of the cavemen look nervous.
<b>
</b><b> CHIEF CAVEMAN
</b> If caveman kill beast? Caveman
safe. Caveman have food.
<b>
</b> The cavemen grunt in understanding.
<b>
</b><b> CHIEF CAVEMAN
</b> Who kill beast?
<b>
</b> The cavemen grunt amongst themselves. The toughest of the
bunch steps forward, pounds his chest and grunts.
<b>
</b><b> CHIEF CAVEMAN
</b>
|
beast
|
How many times does the word 'beast' appear in the text?
| 4
|
give the path a tunnel-like feeling.
<b>CUT TO:
</b>
<b>EXT. OCEANLINER'S DECK - DAYBLACK & WHITE . . .
</b>
Pauline and Juliet running . . . this time they are happy, in holiday clothing, weaving around OTHER PASSENGERS as they race along the deck of an oceanliner.
<b>INTERCUT BETWEEN:
</b>
EXT. VICTORIA PARK/BUSHY TRACK - LATE AFTERNOON Pauline and Juliet desperately scrambling up the track.
<b>AND
</b>
<b>EXT. OCEANLINER S DECK - DAYBLACK & WHITE . . .
</b>
Pauline and Juliet happily bounding along the ships deck.
They push past a group of PASSENGERS. Juliet waves and calls out.
<b>JULIET
</b>Mummy!
The PACE of the INTERCUTTING between TRACK and SHIP, COLOUR and BLACK & WHITE, increases in rhythm.
Pauline and Juliet run up toward a MAN and WOMAN (HENRY and HILDA) on the deck.
<b>JULIET
</b>Mummy!
<b>PAULINE
</b>Mummy!
CAMERA RUSHES toward Hilda and Henry (not seen clearly) as they turn to greet the two girls:
<b>CRASH CUT:
</b>
EXT. VICTORIA PARK/TEAROOMS - DAYAGNES RITCHIE, proprietor of the tearooms at the top of Victoria Park, comes rushing down the steps toward CAMERA . . . her face alarmed.
<b>PAULINE
</b>(O.S.) (Panicked) It's Mummy!
Pauline and Juliet rush into CLOSE-UP . . . panting heavily. For the first time we realise their clothes, and Pauline's face, are splattered with blood.
<b>PAULINE
</b>(Panicked) She's terribly hurt . . .
<b>JULIET
</b>(Hysterical) Somebody's got to help us!
<b>CUT TO:
</b>
<b>SUPERTITLES ON BLACK:
</b>
During 1953 and 1954 Pauline Yvonne Parker kept diaries recording her friendship with Juliet Marion Hulme. This is their story. All diary entries are in Pauline's own words.
INT. CHRISTCHURCH GIRLS' HIGH - FOYER - MORNING MUSIC: "Just a Closer Walk With Thee," sung by a HUNDRED SCHOOLGIRLS.
The school crest "Sapienta et Veritas" embossed in the lino just inside the entrance.
Lisle-stockinged schoolgirl legs carefully walk around the crest . . . TRACK along with the schoolgirl legs.
<b>CUT TO:
</b>
EXT. SCHOOL BUILDING/CRANMER SQUARE - MORNING HYMN CONTINUES OVER:TRACKING . . . with a row of schoolgirl legs, marching in a crocodile line across Cranmer Square.
CRANE UP . . . to reveal CHRISTCHURCH GIRLS' HIGH.
SUPER: "Christchurch Girls' High, 1952"
CREDITS BEGIN . . . GROUPS OF GIRLS, in heavy, pleated, over-the-knee school uniforms, wearing hats, gloves and blazers, flock through the school grounds.
MISS STEWART, the headmistress, stands by the rear entrance, scanning girls' uniforms as they enter.
EXT. RIEPERS' HOUSE/BACK GARDEN - MORNINGCLOSE ON . . . Pauline Rieper's legs as she tries to hitch up her baggy stockings. She hops over a fence and hurries toward the school, which backs onto the Riepers' garden.
She carries a boy's-style school bag on her shoulder and walks with a slight limp.
EXT. CHRISTCHURCH STREETS - MORNINGTRACKING . . . LOW ANGLE with the Hulme car coming toward CAMERA.
INT. SCHOOL CORRIDOR - MORNINGTRACKING . . . with Pauline
|
girls
|
How many times does the word 'girls' appear in the text?
| 5
|
December 2, 1996
Story by:
Ronald Bass
and Michael Herzberg
<b> EXT. HANCOCK TOWER, CHICAGO - LATE NIGHT
</b>
Lake Shore Drive. Four o'clock in the morning. Minimal traffic,
minimal life. As MAIN TITLES BEGIN, we PAN UP the face of...
...Hancock Tower. Up, up, forty floors, sixty, eighty, very dark
up here, street sounds fading fast, and as CREDITS CONTINUE we can
just make out...
...a dark FIGURE. Like a spider. Inching its way up the steel
surface of the 98th floor, and we CLOSE to see...
The THIEF. All in black, nearly invisible, with a sleek visored
helmet that conceals the face. Two long, oblong backpacks, climb-
ing ropes and harness across back and shoulders, tools at the belt.
Moving STRAIGHT UP the face of the skyscraper. How is it possible?
CLOSER still to see...
...the piton-like BOLTS are electromagnetic, CLANKING to the steel
to support weight. A button releases the magnetic charge when the
bolt is pulled up by cords to a higher position. The Thief is
remarkably strong and agile, scaling the wall with fluid precision,
until...
...our summit. A softly-lit, glass-walled PENTHOUSE on the
100th floor. Subtle spots which bathe paintings, sculptures,
in a cavernous coldly-decorated space.
Swiftly, deftly, the Thief rigs a suction-mounted HARNESS to the
steel casing above a massive window. Pulleys, metal caribiner
clips, yellow Kevlar ropes. So superbly practiced, the rigging is
placed in seconds, huge SUCTION CUPS pressed to the surface of the
glass. The Thief reaches to a metal rectangle at the top of the
rigging, touches a button, a motor WHINES, the ropes TIGHTEN and
the window...
...POPS FREE, hangs SUSPENDED by the Kevlar ropes which amazingly
sustain its awesome weight. The huge pane shudders in the wind,
and the Thief slips...
...INTO the Penthouse. Nearby, an ALARM BOX softly BEEPS its
60-second warning to the pulsing of a green light, and the Thief
attaches a small computerized DEVICE which runs a series of
possible CODES at dazzling speed on its display panel, until...
...the right one STOPS. Illuminated in red. The beeping, the
green light, go OFF. The device is removed.
Back to the window, air rushing in, attach a similar suction-
mounted harness from the inside, all exquisitely engineered to rig
in seconds, press new suction cups to the inside of the dangling
window pane. A small remote control clicker...
|
green
|
How many times does the word 'green' appear in the text?
| 1
|
<b> INT. KIEV APARTMENT - NIGHT
</b>
We're in a large closet. JACK KIEFER, an athletic American
in his late thirties wearing a headset, is wedged into a
corner, staring at a television screen.
The television shows a surveillance view of the living room
that lies outside the confines of the closet. The TV image
is in black and white. JACK shifts, trying like hell to get
comfortable but he's been there a while
<b> ON THE SCREEN
</b>
A bare bulb shines down on the contents of a shabby hotel
room. Directly under the blub a man, GENNADY KASIMOV, sits
in a straight backed wooden chair in his blood-stained T-
shirt. There are a couple of THUGS and a stray HOOKER in the
room behind him. A legend:
<b> KIEV
</b>
KASIMOV is sobbing. Uncontrollably. A MAN enters the room,
ANATOLY, an imperious Russian in his forties, a Russian
godfather. The THUGS and HOOKERS are ushered out. ANATOLY
looks down at KASIMOV pitiously and urges him to go and sit
by him in a chair he picks up for him. KASIMOV does as he is
bid, looking gratefully up at ANATOLY. They speak in Russian
which is subtitled.
<b> ANATOLY
</b> Kasimov, Kasimov, good that you called
us.
<b> KASIMOV
</b> (sobbing)
I don't remember what happened! We were
at the bar, drinking, laughing -- having
fun.
ANATOLY gets up out of the chair and goes to a bed across the
room. A WOMAN lies half under the sheets. She's lying in an
unnatural position on the bed, and the sheets are smeared
with blood. She's dead. ANATOLY lifts her eyelid.
<b> KASIMOV
</b> I don't even know how I got here.
I swear, Anatoly, I never touched her! I
didn't lay a finger on her.
ANATOLY moves away from the WOMAN.
<b> ANATOLY
</b> Kasimov. Don't flounder.
<b> IN THE CLOSET
</b>
JACK, impatient, checks his watch.
<b>
|
sobbing
|
How many times does the word 'sobbing' appear in the text?
| 1
|
wait.
And then they started getting into the Russian bunkers, slipping down
when the lids were raised for air and a look around. One claw inside a
bunker, a churning sphere of blades and metal--that was enough. And
when one got in others followed. With a weapon like that the war
couldn't go on much longer.
Maybe it was already over.
Maybe he was going to hear the news. Maybe the Politburo had decided
to throw in the sponge. Too bad it had taken so long. Six years. A
long time for war like that, the way they had waged it. The automatic
retaliation discs, spinning down all over Russia, hundreds of
thousands of them. Bacteria crystals. The Soviet guided missiles,
whistling through the air. The chain bombs. And now this, the robots,
the claws--
The claws weren't like other weapons. They were _alive_, from any
practical standpoint, whether the Governments wanted to admit it or
not. They were not machines. They were living things, spinning,
creeping, shaking themselves up suddenly from the gray ash and darting
toward a man, climbing up him, rushing for his throat. And that was
what they had been designed to do. Their job.
They did their job well. Especially lately, with the new designs
coming up. Now they repaired themselves. They were on their own.
Radiation tabs protected the UN troops, but if a man lost his tab he
was fair game for the claws, no matter what his uniform. Down below
the surface automatic machinery stamped them out. Human beings stayed
a long way off. It was too risky; nobody wanted to be around them.
They were left to themselves. And they seemed to be doing all right.
The new designs were faster, more complex. More efficient.
Apparently they had won the war.
* * * * *
Major Hendricks lit a second cigarette. The landscape depressed him.
Nothing but ash and ruins. He seemed to be alone, the only living
thing in the whole world. To the right the ruins of a town rose up, a
few walls and heaps of debris. He tossed the dead match away,
increasing his pace. Suddenly he stopped, jerking up his gun, his body
tense. For a minute it looked like--
From behind the shell of a ruined building a figure came, walking
slowly toward him, walking hesitantly.
Hendricks blinked. "Stop!"
The boy stopped. Hendricks lowered his gun. The boy stood silently,
looking at him. He was small, not very old. Perhaps eight. But it was
hard to tell. Most of the kids who remained were stunted. He wore a
faded blue sweater, ragged with dirt, and short pants. His hair was
long and matted. Brown hair. It hung over his face and around his
ears. He held something in his arms.
"What's that you have?" Hendricks said sharply.
The boy held it out. It was a toy, a bear. A teddy bear. The boy's
eyes were large, but without expression.
Hendricks relaxed. "I don't want it. Keep it."
The boy hugged the bear again.
"Where do you live?" Hendricks said.
"In there."
"The ruins?"
"Yes."
"Underground?"
"Yes."
"How many are there?"
"How--how many?"
"How many of you. How big's your settlement?"
The boy did not answer.
Hendricks frowned. "You're not all by yourself, are you?"
The boy nodded.
"How do you stay alive?"
"There's food."
"What kind of food?"
"Different."
Hendricks studied him. "How old are you?"
"Thirteen."
* * * * *
It wasn't possible. Or was it? The boy was thin, stunted. And probably
sterile. Radiation exposure, years straight. No wonder he was so
small. His arms and legs were like pipe
|
like
|
How many times does the word 'like' appear in the text?
| 4
|
FROM BLACK, VOICES EMERGE--
</b> We hear the actual recorded emergency calls made by World
Trade Center office workers to police and fire departments
after the planes struck on 9/11, just before the buildings
collapsed.
<b> TITLE OVER: SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
</b> We listen to fragments from a number of these calls...starting
with pleas for help, building to a panic, ending with the
caller's grim acceptance that help will not arrive, that the
situation is hopeless, that they are about to die.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> TITLE OVER: TWO YEARS LATER
</b>
<b> INT. BLACK SITE - INTERROGATION ROOM
</b>
<b> DANIEL
</b> I own you, Ammar. You belong to me.
Look at me.
This is DANIEL STANTON, the CIA's man in Islamabad - a big
American, late 30's, with a long, anarchical beard snaking
down to his tattooed neck. He looks like a paramilitary
hipster, a punk rocker with a Glock.
<b> DANIEL (CONT'D)
</b> (explaining the rules)
If you don't look at me when I talk
to you, I hurt you. If you step off
this mat, I hurt you. If you lie to
me, I'm gonna hurt you. Now, Look
at me.
His prisoner, AMMAR, stands on a decaying gym mat, surrounded
by four GUARDS whose faces are covered in ski masks.
Ammar looks down. Instantly: the guards rush Ammar, punching
and kicking.
<b> DANIEL (CONT'D)
</b> Look at me, Ammar.
Notably, one of the GUARDS wearing a ski mask does not take
part in the beating.
<b> 2.
</b>
<b> EXT. BLACK SITE - LATER
</b>
Daniel and the masked figures emerge from the interrogation
room into the light of day. They remove their
|
acceptance
|
How many times does the word 'acceptance' appear in the text?
| 0
|
the engine-room and come up for an airing. The machinery itself was
still pounding on.
Bartley's abstraction and Wilson's reflections were cut short by a
rustle at the door, and almost before they could rise Mrs. Alexander was
standing by the hearth. Alexander brought a chair for her, but she shook
her head.
"No, dear, thank you. I only came in to see whether you and Professor
Wilson were quite comfortable. I am going down to the music-room."
"Why not practice here? Wilson and I are growing very dull. We are tired
of talk."
"Yes, I beg you, Mrs. Alexander," Wilson began, but he got no further.
"Why, certainly, if you won't find me too noisy. I am working on the
Schumann `Carnival,' and, though I don't practice a great many hours,
I am very methodical," Mrs. Alexander explained, as she crossed to an
upright piano that stood at the back of the room, near the windows.
Wilson followed, and, having seen her seated, dropped into a chair
behind her. She played brilliantly and with great musical feeling.
Wilson could not imagine her permitting herself to do anything badly,
but he was surprised at the cleanness of her execution. He wondered how
a woman with so many duties had managed to keep herself up to a standard
really professional. It must take a great deal of time, certainly, and
Bartley must take a great deal of time. Wilson reflected that he had
never before known a woman who had been able, for any considerable
while, to support both a personal and an intellectual passion. Sitting
behind her, he watched her with perplexed admiration, shading his eyes
with his hand. In her dinner dress she looked even younger than in
street clothes, and, for all her composure and self-sufficiency, she
seemed to him strangely alert and vibrating, as if in her, too, there
were something never altogether at rest. He felt that he knew pretty
much what she demanded in people and what she demanded from life, and he
wondered how she squared Bartley. After ten years she must know him;
and however one took him, however much one admired him, one had to admit
that he simply wouldn't square. He was a natural force, certainly, but
beyond that, Wilson felt, he was not anything very really or for very
long at a time.
Wilson glanced toward the fire, where Bartley's profile was still
wreathed in cigar smoke that curled up more and more slowly. His
shoulders were sunk deep in the cushions and one hand hung large and
passive over the arm of his chair. He had slipped on a purple velvet
smoking-coat. His wife, Wilson surmised, had chosen it. She was clearly
very proud of his good looks and his fine color. But, with the glow of
an immediate interest gone out of it, the engineer's face looked tired,
even a little haggard. The three lines in his forehead, directly above
the nose, deepened as he sat thinking, and his powerful head drooped
forward heavily. Although Alexander was only forty-three, Wilson thought
that beneath his vigorous color he detected the dulling weariness of
on-coming middle age.
The next afternoon, at the hour when the river was beginning to
redden under the declining sun, Wilson again found himself facing Mrs.
Alexander at the tea-table in the library.
"Well," he remarked, when he was bidden to give an account of himself,
"there was a long morning with the psychologists, luncheon with Bartley
at his club, more psychologists, and here I am. I've looked forward to
this hour all day."
Mrs. Alexander smiled at him across the vapor from the kettle. "And do
you remember where we stopped yesterday?"
"Perfectly. I was going to show you a picture. But I doubt whether I
have color enough in me. Bartley makes me feel a faded monochrome. You
can't get at the young Bartley except by means of color." Wilson paused
and deliberated. Suddenly he broke out: "He wasn't a remarkable student,
you know, though he was always strong in higher mathematics. His work
in my own department was quite ordinary. It was as a powerfully equipped
nature that I found him interesting. That is the most interesting thing
a teacher can find. It has the fascination of a
|
time
|
How many times does the word 'time' appear in the text?
| 2
|
rhythm. The snap of a military snare drum.
<b>
</b><b> SUPERIMPOSE: "1998"
</b><b>
</b><b> FEMALE NARRATOR
</b> Forces hostile to the United States grow
strong in the late 20th Century.
<b>
</b><b> A DARK TABLEAU - CITY STREET - LOS ANGELES - NIGHT
</b><b>
</b> Graffiti-smeared walls. Fires raging. Automatic weapons fire.
Shadowy figures dash through the southern California night.
<b>
</b><b> FEMALE NARRATOR
</b> A great moral crisis grips the nation as
social revolution and a breakdown of the
criminal justice system threaten society.
<b>
</b><b> A LINE OF POLICEMEN - NIGHT
</b><b>
</b> They stand like sentinels. Black uniforms. Battle helmets.
Gleaming military assault weapons. Bullet-proof shields with large
emblems: the American eagle against a red background, and in bold
letters underneath, "THE UNITED STATES POLICE FORCE".
<b>
</b><b> FEMALE NARRATOR
</b> To protect and defend its citizens, the
United States Police Force is formed.
<b>
</b><b> A GLOWING HOLOGRAPHIC MAP
</b><b>
</b> Of Los Angeles, on the coast of southern California.
<b>
</b><b> SUPERIMPOSE: "1999"
</b><b>
</b><b> FEMALE NARRATOR
</b> The population of Los Angeles grows to 40
million. The city is ravaged by crime and
immorality. A Presidential candidate
predicts a millennium earthquake will
|
revolution
|
How many times does the word 'revolution' appear in the text?
| 0
|
he eyes a framed photoportrait on his desk: a beautiful, thirty-something blonde returns his gaze with an enigmatic smile. He stops writing and folds the sheet, scrawls something on the back, and leaves it on the desk. Then he walks to the centre of the room and climbs on the chair. He puts his head through the noose and tightens it around his neck. He kicks away the back of the chair, but it doesn't fall. Frantically, he tries again: this time the chair topples over. The chandelier squeaks as it swings on its hook, but it holds. Fragments of plaster come raining down. His neck isn't broken: he starts to choke. His feet perform a
convulsive dance in mid-air only six inches above the floor; one of his shoes comes off. The camera leaves the dying man and moves in on the bookshelves. To the accompaniment of choking sounds, it pans across the rows of volumes until it reaches a gap that shows where one of them has been removed. The choking sounds cease. The camera enters the black void left by the missing book. The screen goes dark. <BR>
<b><BR>
</b><b>*** <BR>
</b>Manhattan apartment. Day. Manhattan skyline seen through a picture window. Above it, reflected in the windowpane, the face of an old woman seated with her back to the room. Her expression is impassive and self-absorbed, her twisted mouth suggests she's a stroke victim. She seems quite uninvolved in the action behind her. <BR>
Corso: (Off screen) An impressive collection. You have some very rare editions here. Sure you want to sell them all? (Dean Corso, a tall, lean, rather unkempt man in his 30's. Steel-rimmed glasses, crumpled old tweed jacket, worn cords, scuffed brown oxfords. He replaces a book on a shelf. Standing beside him is the old woman's son, a middle-aged man with a puffy red face. Her daughter-in-law looks on, one hand cupping her elbow, the fingers of the other playing avidly with her lower lip. The son is cuddling a large Scotch on the rocks like it's an integral part of his anatomy. <BR>
<b><BR>
</b>Son: They're no use to Father, not anymore -not now he's passed away. His library was his own little world. Now it's just a painful memory for Mother here. <BR>
Daughter-in-law: Unbearably painful. <BR>
Corso: (glances at them over the top of his glasses, then at the old woman. It's clear that the old woman's true source of pain is their desire to convert her late husband's library into hard cash. He picks up a notebook, adjusts his glasses with an instinctive, habitual movement, taps the notebook with his pencil) Corso: Well, at a rough, preliminary estimate, you have a collection here worth around two hundred thousand dollars. <BR>
Daughter-in-Law: (almost jumps): Two hundred thousand?! <BR>
Corso: Or thereabouts. <BR>
<b><BR>
</b>He smiles sweetly at the Daughter-in-Law. The old woman continues to stare blankly at her reflection in the window. Behind her, the son sidles up to Corso, who indicates the volumes in question. <BR>
<b><BR>
</b>Son: How much were you thinking of... <BR>
Corso: Hmm... I couldn't go higher than four grand - four-and-a-half tops. (takes an envelope from his shoulder bag and starts peeling off some bills) <BR>
<b><BR>
</b><b>*** <BR>
</b>Manhattan Apartment. Corridor. Day. Corso walks along the corridor toward the elevator with the canvas bag slung from his shoulder. He's grinning to himself. The bag is obviously heavier than it was. The elevator doors open just as he's about to press the button. He almost collides with a bespectacled, briefcase-carrying man in a three-piece suit and bow tie (Witkin). <BR>
Witkin: (caustically): You here? You didn't waste much time. <BR>
Corso: Hello, Witkin. There's a small fortune in there. (smiles sardonically) Help yourself. <BR>
|
corso
|
How many times does the word 'corso' appear in the text?
| 8
|
of parental
spoiling, had come to regard herself as the feminine equivalent of the
Tsar of All the Russias. Such women are only made in America, and they
only come to their full bloom in Europe, which they imagine to be a
continent created by Providence for their diversion.
The young lady by the window glanced disapprovingly at the menu card.
Then she looked round the dining-room, and, while admiring the diners,
decided that the room itself was rather small and plain. Then she gazed
through the open window, and told herself that though the Thames by
twilight was passable enough, it was by no means level with the Hudson,
on whose shores her father had a hundred thousand dollar country
cottage. Then she returned to the menu, and with a pursing of lovely
lips said that there appeared to be nothing to eat.
'Sorry to keep you waiting, Nella.' It was Mr Racksole, the intrepid
millionaire who had dared to order an Angel Kiss in the smoke-room of
the Grand Babylon. Nella--her proper name was Helen--smiled at her
parent cautiously, reserving to herself the right to scold if she should
feel so inclined.
'You always are late, father,' she said.
'Only on a holiday,' he added. 'What is there to eat?'
'Nothing.'
'Then let's have it. I'm hungry. I'm never so hungry as when I'm being
seriously idle.'
'Consommé Britannia,' she began to read out from the menu, 'Saumon
d'Ecosse, Sauce Genoise, Aspics de Homard. Oh, heavens! Who wants these
horrid messes on a night like this?'
'But, Nella, this is the best cooking in Europe,' he protested.
'Say, father,' she said, with seeming irrelevance, 'had you forgotten
it's my birthday to-morrow?'
'Have I ever forgotten your birthday, O most costly daughter?'
'On the whole you've been a most satisfactory dad,' she answered
sweetly, 'and to reward you I'll be content this year with the cheapest
birthday treat you ever gave me. Only I'll have it to-night.'
'Well,' he said, with the long-suffering patience, the readiness for any
surprise, of a parent whom Nella had thoroughly trained, 'what is it?'
'It's this. Let's have filleted steak and a bottle of Bass for dinner
to-night. It will be simply exquisite. I shall love it.'
'But my dear Nella,' he exclaimed, 'steak and beer at Felix's! It's
impossible! Moreover, young women still under twenty-three cannot be
permitted to drink Bass.'
'I said steak and Bass, and as for being twenty-three, shall be going in
twenty-four to-morrow.'
Miss Racksole set her small white teeth.
There was a gentle cough. Jules stood over them. It must have been out
of a pure spirit of adventure that he had selected this table for his
own services. Usually Jules did not personally wait at dinner. He merely
hovered observant, like a captain on the bridge during the mate's watch.
Regular frequenters of the hôtel felt themselves honoured when Jules
attached himself to their tables.
Theodore Racksole hesitated one second, and then issued the order with a
fine air of carelessness:
'Filleted steak for two, and a bottle of Bass.' It was the bravest act
of Theodore Racksole's life, and yet at more than one previous crisis a
high courage had not been lacking to him.
'It's not in the menu, sir,' said Jules the imperturbable.
'Never mind. Get it. We want it.'
'Very good, sir.'
Jules walked to the service-door, and, merely affecting to look behind,
came immediately back again.
'Mr Rocco's compliments, sir, and he regrets to be unable to serve steak
and Bass to-night, sir.'
'Mr Rocco?' questioned Racksole lightly.
'Mr Rocco,' repeated Jules with firmness.
'And who is Mr Rocco?'
'Mr Rocco is our chef, sir.' Jules had
|
come
|
How many times does the word 'come' appear in the text?
| 1
|
rona?â queried Stepan Arkadyevitch, going up to
her at the door.
Although Stepan Arkadyevitch was completely in the wrong as regards his
wife, and was conscious of this himself, almost everyone in the house
(even the nurse, Darya Alexandrovnaâs chief ally) was on his side.
âWell, what now?â he asked disconsolately.
âGo to her, sir; own your fault again. Maybe God will aid you. She is
suffering so, itâs sad to see her; and besides, everything in the house
is topsy-turvy. You must have pity, sir, on the children. Beg her
forgiveness, sir. Thereâs no help for it! One must take the
consequences....â
âBut she wonât see me.â
âYou do your part. God is merciful; pray to God, sir, pray to God.â
âCome, thatâll do, you can go,â said Stepan Arkadyevitch, blushing
suddenly. âWell now, do dress me.â He turned to Matvey and threw off
his dressing-gown decisively.
Matvey was already holding up the shirt like a horseâs collar, and,
blowing off some invisible speck, he slipped it with obvious pleasure
over the well-groomed body of his master.
Chapter 3
When he was dressed, Stepan Arkadyevitch sprinkled some scent on
himself, pulled down his shirt-cuffs, distributed into his pockets his
cigarettes, pocketbook, matches, and watch with its double chain and
seals, and shaking out his handkerchief, feeling himself clean,
fragrant, healthy, and physically at ease, in spite of his unhappiness,
he walked with a slight swing on each leg into the dining-room, where
coffee was already waiting for him, and beside the coffee, letters and
papers from the office.
He read the letters. One was very unpleasant, from a merchant who was
buying a forest on his wifeâs property. To sell this forest was
absolutely essential; but at present, until he was reconciled with his
wife, the subject could not be discussed. The most unpleasant thing of
all was that his pecuniary interests should in this way enter into the
question of his reconciliation with his wife. And the idea that he
might be led on by his interests, that he might seek a reconciliation
with his wife on account of the sale of the forestâthat idea hurt him.
When he had finished his letters, Stepan Arkadyevitch moved the
office-papers close to him, rapidly looked through two pieces of
business, made a few notes with a big pencil, and pushing away the
papers, turned to his coffee. As he sipped his coffee, he opened a
still damp morning paper, and began reading it.
Stepan Arkadyevitch took in and read a liberal paper, not an extreme
one, but one advocating the views held by the majority. And in spite of
the fact that science, art, and politics had no special interest for
him, he firmly held those views on all these subjects which were held
by the majority and by his paper, and he only changed them when the
majority changed themâor, more strictly speaking, he did not change
them, but they imperceptibly changed of themselves within him.
Stepan Arkadyevitch had not chosen his political opinions or his views;
these political opinions and views had come to him of themselves, just
as he did not choose the shapes of his hat and coat, but simply took
those that were being worn. And for him, living in a certain
societyâowing to the need, ordinarily developed at years of discretion,
for some degree of mental activityâto have views was just as
indispensable as to have a hat. If there was a reason for his
preferring liberal to conservative views, which were held also by
|
these
|
How many times does the word 'these' appear in the text?
| 1
|
I can't
abide to see men throw away their tools i' that way, the minute the
clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i' their work and
was afraid o' doing a stroke too much."
Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his
preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, "Aye, aye,
Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y' are six-an'-forty like me,
istid o' six-an'-twenty, ye wonna be so flush o' workin' for nought."
"Nonsense," said Adam, still wrathful; "what's age got to do with it, I
wonder? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man's arms
drop down as if he was shot, before the clock's fairly struck, just as
if he'd never a bit o' pride and delight in 's work. The very grindstone
'ull go on turning a bit after you loose it."
"Bodderation, Adam!" exclaimed Wiry Ben; "lave a chap aloon, will 'ee?
Ye war afinding faut wi' preachers a while agoo--y' are fond enough o'
preachin' yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play
better nor work; that'll 'commodate ye--it laves ye th' more to do."
With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Ben
shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum
Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if
he expected him to say something.
"Shalt go home before thee go'st to the preaching?" Adam asked, looking
up.
"Nay; I've got my hat and things at Will Maskery's. I shan't be home
before going for ten. I'll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she's
willing. There's nobody comes with her from Poyser's, thee know'st."
"Then I'll tell mother not to look for thee," said Adam.
"Thee artna going to Poyser's thyself to-night?" said Seth rather
timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop.
"Nay, I'm going to th' school."
Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and
watching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing.
But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist
his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his
master's face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would
doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his
emotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear
more phlegmatic than nature had made him.
"What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?" said Adam, with the same
gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth.
Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, "Of course." Poor
fellow, he had not a great range of expression.
The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam's and Seth's dinner;
and no official, walking in procession, could look more resolutely
unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting at
his master's heels.
On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and
carried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a
low house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant
and mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and
speckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb
tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen
gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls
which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expectation
of cold potatoes or barley. The old woman's sight seemed to be dim, for
she did not recognize Adam till he said, "Here's the key, Dolly
|
poyser
|
How many times does the word 'poyser' appear in the text?
| 1
|
> 1.
</b>
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> OUTSKIRTS OF A SOUTH TEXAS RAILROAD YARD (SAN RAFAEL)
</b>
<b> A TRAIN ROARS PAST REVEALING IN THE DISTANCE FIVE MET RIDING
</b> TOWARD CAMERA along the tracks. In CLOSE F.G. is.the back
part of a sign.
<b> NARRATOR
</b> To most of America in 1913, the Age
of Innocence had arrived and the
stories of the Indian Wars and the
Gold.RuSh and the Great Gunfighters
had become either barroom ballyhoo
or front-porch remiraiscences... .But
on both sides of the $io Grande men
still lived as thia7 had in the 1 70's
and 1 80's -- unchanged. men in a
changing land.
THEY WEAR THE KHAKI UNIFORMS OF THE UNITED STATES CnVALJRY..
The horses bear the government brand and the saddles are
regulation.
PIKE BISHOP,. wearing lieutenant's bars, rides slightly ahead
of the others. He rides stiffly; always slightly in pain...
Pike is a not unhandsome, leather-faced man in his early
forties. A thoughtful, self-educated top gun with a penchant
for violence who is afraid of nothing - except the. changes
in himself and those around him.
Make no mistake, Pike Bishop is not a hero -- his values are
not ours -- he is a gunfighter, a criminal, a bank. robber, a
killer of men. His sympathies are not for fences, for
trolleys.and telegraphs or better schools. He lives outside
and against society because he believes in that way of life
and if he has moments of sympathy for others, moments of
regret, t hey ' are short lived. He is not a 'good man'
according to the righteous... To them he is totally bad,
and he wouldn't have it any other way.
Next to him DUTCH ENGSTROM wears the uniform of a sergeant.
Dutch is bigâ good-natured with a fast gun hand, strong
loyalty and, like Pike, a bone deep distaste for rules and
regulations. He can sing,. has more than his share of charm,
but believes in nothing except two men, and Pike is one.
Behind them ride two brothers, LYLE and TECTOR GORCH,
dressed as corporals. Lyle and Tector are big, tough, hot
tempered and sudden. They work together, eat together
|
indian
|
How many times does the word 'indian' appear in the text?
| 0
|
A MIDDLE-AGED AFRICAN-AMERICAN MAN carries his single bag of
groceries. The man listens and watches carefully, as he
negotiates the darkness between the few pools of light on the
street.
We won't see his face until he reaches the next pool of
light, but he walks with shoulders hunched in fear.
Moving down the block, all shops abandoned. Broken windows.
Rats. The man almost trips over a vague shadow passed out
and crumpled in an abandoned doorway. It's the crackhead we
saw mumbling himself into the nod-off zone. He's still
faintly singing a part of the bones song as the man passes.
He stops in the light.
And we see it's SHOTGUN: 20 years of fear and loathing etched
on his face. He freezes, listening for a second to the
crackheads wheezing mumbles - no - it's something else he's
listening for -- and hearing.
From behind him a low wheezy sound, like some huge panting
dog. He stops. And it stops. He walks on and it follows:
As he hurries to the next pool of light and safety, his ears
strain for the nearly silent padding and wheezing steadily
following.
Suddenly, he hears that panting closer and closer until it's
nearly right behind him. He starts running, though he hasn't
yet seen anything. Only heard the mongrel hot on his heels.
<b> FOLLOW WITH SHOTGUN
</b>
As he stumbles, careens, and wheezes through the streets and
alleys, terrified. Winded, he eventually stops, his hand
trembling into his shopping bag, seeking a weapon.
And we see the building he's paused beside: Bones' place.
Pockmarked by age. Like the face of some furious old man.
Now he can almost feel the dog's breath on the back of his
neck...Shotgun spins, whipping a bottle of milk out of the
bag and hurling it into the darkness behind him.
The bottle smashes against the wall of Bones' building. For
a second, silhouetted against the now whited wall, the tall,
too tall, shape of the skinny black dog.
Without waiting to see what he hit, Shotgun takes off running
to reach his building across the street. The sound of the
dog's nails skittering across the street right behind him --
|
street
|
How many times does the word 'street' appear in the text?
| 2
|
at
a fellow-member who has had the impudence to enter the smoking-room, and
her two little charges are pulling her away from the post-office. When
I look out at the window again she is gone, but I shall ring for her
to-morrow at two sharp.
She must have passed the window many times before I noticed her. I know
not where she lives, though I suppose it to be hard by. She is taking
the little boy and girl, who bully her, to the St. James's Park, as
their hoops tell me, and she ought to look crushed and faded. No doubt
her mistress overworks her. It must enrage the other servants to see her
deporting herself as if she were quite the lady.
I noticed that she had sometimes other letters to post, but that
the posting of the one only was a process. They shot down the slit,
plebeians all, but it followed pompously like royalty. I have even seen
her blow a kiss after it.
Then there was her ring, of which she was as conscious as if it rather
than she was what came gaily down the street. She felt it through her
glove to make sure that it was still there. She took off the glove and
raised the ring to her lips, though I doubt not it was the cheapest
trinket. She viewed it from afar by stretching out her hand; she stooped
to see how it looked near the ground; she considered its effect on the
right of her and on the left of her and through one eye at a time. Even
when you saw that she had made up her mind to think hard of something
else, the little silly would take another look.
I give anyone three chances to guess why Mary was so happy.
No and no and no. The reason was simply this, that a lout of a young man
loved her. And so, instead of crying because she was the merest nobody,
she must, forsooth, sail jauntily down Pall Mall, very trim as to her
tackle and ticketed with the insufferable air of an engaged woman. At
first her complacency disturbed me, but gradually it became part of my
life at two o'clock with the coffee, the cigarette, and the liqueur. Now
comes the tragedy.
Thursday is her great day. She has from two to three every Thursday for
her very own; just think of it: this girl, who is probably paid several
pounds a year, gets a whole hour to herself once a week. And what does
she with it? Attend classes for making her a more accomplished person?
Not she. This is what she does: sets sail for Pall Mall, wearing all her
pretty things, including the blue feathers, and with such a sparkle
of expectation on her face that I stir my coffee quite fiercely. On
ordinary days she at least tries to look demure, but on a Thursday she
has had the assurance to use the glass door of the club as a mirror in
which to see how she likes her engaging trifle of a figure to-day.
In the meantime a long-legged oaf is waiting for her outside the
post-office, where they meet every Thursday, a fellow who always wears
the same suit of clothes, but has a face that must ever make him free of
the company of gentlemen. He is one of your lean, clean Englishmen,
who strip so well, and I fear me he is handsome; I say fear, for your
handsome men have always annoyed me, and had I lived in the duelling
days I swear I would have called every one of them out. He seems to be
quite unaware that he is a pretty fellow, but Lord, how obviously Mary
knows it. I conclude that he belongs to the artistic classes, he is
so easily elated and depressed; and because he carries his left thumb
curiously, as if it were feeling for the hole of a palette, I have
entered his name among the painters. I find pleasure in deciding that
they are shocking bad pictures, for obviously no one buys them. I feel
sure Mary says they are splendid, she is that sort of woman. Hence the
rapture with which he greets her. Her first effect upon him is to make
him shout with laughter. He laughs suddenly haw from an eager exulting
face, then haw again, and then, when you are thanking heaven that it is
at last over, comes a final haw, louder than the
|
effect
|
How many times does the word 'effect' appear in the text?
| 1
|
didn't she? Come on -
- we'll go tell Uncle Henry and Auntie
Em. Come on, Toto.
LS -- Farm yard -- Dorothy enters left b.g. along road --
Toto following her -- CAMERA PANS right -- she comes forward
thru gate -- runs forward to Aunt Em and Uncle Henry working
at Incubator --
<b> DOROTHY (CONT'D)
</b> Aunt Em! Aunt Em!
MS -- Aunt Em and Uncle Henry working with baby chicks in
incubator -- Dorothy runs in -- speaks to them -- Dorothy
picks up baby chick -- CAMERA TRUCKS back as Aunt Em and
Dorothy come forward -- Aunt Em puts chick in coop with hen --
then TRUCKS forward as they go to b.g. to incubator --
Dorothy reacts -- Uncle Henry looks at her -- CAMERA PANS her
to left across yard --
<b> DOROTHY (CONT'D)
</b> Aunt Em!
<b> AUNT EM
</b> Fifty-seven, fifty-eight --
<b> DOROTHY
</b> Just listen to what Miss Gulch did to
Toto! She --
<b> AUNT EM
</b> Dorothy, please! We're trying to count!
Fifty-eight--
<b> DOROTHY
</b> Oh, but Aunt Em, she hit him over the --
<b> (CONTINUED)
</b><b>
</b><b> 2.
</b><b>CONTINUED:
</b>
<b> UNCLE HENRY
</b> Don't bother us now, honey -- this old
incubator's gone bad, and we're likely to
lose a lot of our chicks.
<b> DOROTHY
</b> Oh -- oh, the poor little things. Oh,
but Aunt Em, Miss Gulch hit Toto right
over the back with a rake just because
she says he gets in her garden and chases
her nasty old cat every day.
<b> AUNT EM
</b>
|
gone
|
How many times does the word 'gone' appear in the text?
| 0
|
to
whom nobody dared speak and who vanished as soon as he was seen, no one
knowing how or where. As became a real ghost, he made no noise in
walking. People began by laughing and making fun of this specter
dressed like a man of fashion or an undertaker; but the ghost legend
soon swelled to enormous proportions among the corps de ballet. All
the girls pretended to have met this supernatural being more or less
often. And those who laughed the loudest were not the most at ease.
When he did not show himself, he betrayed his presence or his passing
by accident, comic or serious, for which the general superstition held
him responsible. Had any one met with a fall, or suffered a practical
joke at the hands of one of the other girls, or lost a powderpuff, it
was at once the fault of the ghost, of the Opera ghost.
After all, who had seen him? You meet so many men in dress-clothes at
the Opera who are not ghosts. But this dress-suit had a peculiarity of
its own. It covered a skeleton. At least, so the ballet-girls said.
And, of course, it had a death's head.
Was all this serious? The truth is that the idea of the skeleton came
from the description of the ghost given by Joseph Buquet, the chief
scene-shifter, who had really seen the ghost. He had run up against
the ghost on the little staircase, by the footlights, which leads to
"the cellars." He had seen him for a second--for the ghost had
fled--and to any one who cared to listen to him he said:
"He is extraordinarily thin and his dress-coat hangs on a skeleton
frame. His eyes are so deep that you can hardly see the fixed pupils.
You just see two big black holes, as in a dead man's skull. His skin,
which is stretched across his bones like a drumhead, is not white, but
a nasty yellow. His nose is so little worth talking about that you
can't see it side-face; and THE ABSENCE of that nose is a horrible
thing TO LOOK AT. All the hair he has is three or four long dark locks
on his forehead and behind his ears."
This chief scene-shifter was a serious, sober, steady man, very slow at
imagining things. His words were received with interest and amazement;
and soon there were other people to say that they too had met a man in
dress-clothes with a death's head on his shoulders. Sensible men who
had wind of the story began by saying that Joseph Buquet had been the
victim of a joke played by one of his assistants. And then, one after
the other, there came a series of incidents so curious and so
inexplicable that the very shrewdest people began to feel uneasy.
For instance, a fireman is a brave fellow! He fears nothing, least of
all fire! Well, the fireman in question, who had gone to make a round
of inspection in the cellars and who, it seems, had ventured a little
farther than usual, suddenly reappeared on the stage, pale, scared,
trembling, with his eyes starting out of his head, and practically
fainted in the arms of the proud mother of little Jammes.[1] And why?
Because he had seen coming toward him, AT THE LEVEL OF HIS HEAD, BUT
WITHOUT A BODY ATTACHED TO IT, A HEAD OF FIRE! And, as I said, a
fireman is not afraid of fire.
The fireman's name was Pampin.
The corps de ballet was flung into consternation. At first sight, this
fiery head in no way corresponded with Joseph Buquet's description of
the ghost. But the young ladies soon persuaded themselves that the
ghost had several heads, which he changed about as he pleased. And, of
course, they at once imagined that they were in the greatest danger.
Once a fireman did not hesitate to faint, leaders and front-row and
back-row girls alike had plenty of excuses for the fright that made
them quicken their pace when passing some dark corner or ill-lighted
corridor. Sorelli herself, on the day after the adventure of the
fireman, placed
|
inexplicable
|
How many times does the word 'inexplicable' appear in the text?
| 0
|
sparkles to life in the distance. Gives rise to another...
and another... until we're looking at a whole galaxy of stars.
No, not stars. LIGHTS. NEON LIGHTS. A throbbing skyline of
neon. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. As seen from a descending aerial
shot. We PLUNGE down into her shimmering embrace... DISSOLVING
<b> TO:
</b>
<b> EXT. LAS VEGAS STRIP - NIGHT
</b>
Cruising the Strip, taking in modern day Las Vegas. Sin City
gone theme park. Gigantic behemoths of pulsating neon: THE
MGM GRAND... EXCALIBUR... LUXOR... TREASURE ISLAND... passing
revamped faithfuls like CAESARS and THE DESERT INN...
...then heading DOWNTOWN to Fremont Street, where "old school"
Vegas makes its last stand. BINION'S HORSESHOE, THE FOUR
QUEENS, THE LAS VEGAS CLUB arid...
<b> THE SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO
</b>
One thing's for sure. This place ain't no bastard child of
Epcott Center. At least, not yet. Sure there's some flash
going on, but it's more class than overkill.
This is where the pro's come to savor a time forgotten. A
joint where every dealer knows your name. Where part of the
allure is the smell of moldy paneling and the tactile whisper
of worn felt. Where "funny business" doesn't just get you
blacklisted... It gets you dead.
Lets us enter.
<b> INT. SHANGRI-LA HOTEL AND CASINO - NIGHT
</b>
<b> CREDITS SEQUENCE
</b>
TRACKING through the casino floor; highlighting SLOT MACHINE
PAY-OFFS and pockets of rowdy players winning at BLACKJACK,
CRAPS and ROULETTE. It's just one of those nights. The tables
are on fire.
A FLOOR MANAGER nods as a hefty bet is paid out to a shooter
at a craps table: He checks out his watch, anxious for the
|
where
|
How many times does the word 'where' appear in the text?
| 4
|
.
There were no jewels, but one or two sheets of something that looked
like paper. It was not paper, however, but some vegetable product
which was used for the same purpose. The surface was smooth, but the
color was dingy, and the lines of the vegetable fibres were plainly
discernible. These sheets were covered with writing.
"Halloa!" cried Melick. "Why, this is English!"
At this the others crowded around to look on, and Featherstone in his
excitement forgot that he had lost his bet. There were three sheets,
all covered with writing--one in English, another in French, and a
third in German. It was the same message, written in these three
different languages. But at that moment they scarcely noticed this.
All that they saw was the message itself, with its mysterious meaning.
It was as follows:
"To the finder of this:
"Sir,--I am an Englishman, and have been carried by a series of
incredible events to a land from which escape is as impossible as from
the grave. I have written this and committed it to the sea, in the
hope that the ocean currents may bear it within the reach of civilized
man. Oh, unknown friend! whoever you are. I entreat you to let this
message be made known in some way to my father, Henry More, Keswick,
Cumberland, England, so that he may learn the fate of his son. The MS.
accompanying this contains an account of my adventures, which I should
like to have forwarded to him. Do this for the sake of that mercy
which you may one day wish to have shown to yourself.
"ADAM MORE."
"By Jove!" cried Featherstone, as he read the above, "this is really
getting to be something tremendous."
"This other package must be the manuscript," said Oxenden, "and it'll
tell all about it."
"Such a manuscript'll be better than meat," said the doctor,
sententiously.
Melick said nothing, but, opening his knife, he cut the cords and
unfolded the wrapper. He saw a great collection of leaves, just like
those of the letter, of some vegetable substance, smooth as paper, and
covered with writing.
"It looks like Egyptian papyrus," said the doctor. "That was the
common paper of antiquity."
"Never mind the Egyptian papyrus," said Featherstone, in feverish
curiosity. "Let's have the contents of the manuscript. You, Melick,
read; you're the most energetic of the lot, and when you're tired the
rest of us will take turns."
"Read? Why, it'll take a month to read all this," said Melick.
"All the better," said Featherstone; "this calm will probably last a
month, and we shall have nothing to interest us."
Melick made no further objection. He was as excited as the rest, and
so he began the reading of the manuscript.
CHAPTER II
ADRIFT IN THE ANTARCTIC OCEAN
My name is Adam More. I am the son of Henry More, apothecary, Keswick,
Cumberland. I was mate of the ship Trevelyan (Bennet, master), which
was chartered by the British Government to convey convicts to Van
Dieman's Land. This was in 1843. We made our voyage without any
casualty, landed our convicts in Hobart Town, and then set forth on
our return home. It was the 17th of December when we left. From the
first adverse winds prevailed, and in order to make any progress we
were obliged to keep well to the south. At length, on the 6th of
January, we sighted Desolation Island. We found it, indeed, a desolate
spot. In its vicinity we saw a multitude of smaller islands, perhaps a
thousand in number, which made navigation difficult, and forced us to
hurry away as fast as possible. But the aspect of this dreary spot was
of itself enough to repel us. There were no trees, and the multitude
of islands seemed like moss-covered rocks; while the temperature,
though in the middle of the antarctic summer, was from 38 to 58
degrees Fahr.
In order to get rid of these dangerous islands we stood south and
west
|
papyrus
|
How many times does the word 'papyrus' appear in the text?
| 1
|
the heart and mind of America had better
learn baseball.
--Jacques Barzun
<b>
</b>
You could look it up.
--Casey Stengel
<b>
</b>
Titles over --
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
A series of still photos. Black and white. Ancient.
BABE RUTH SWINGS -- An icon of American history. His giant
upper body balanced delicately on tiny ankles and feet. The
huge bat in an elegant follow-through...
<b> DISSOLVE TO:
</b>
TY COBB ROUNDS THIRD -- The most vicious ballplayer of them
all, a balletic whirling dervish.
<b> DISSOLVE TO:
</b>
JACKIE ROBINSON STEALS ROME -- Yogi Berra applies the tag.
Too late.
<b> DISSOLVE TO:
</b>
JOE DIMAGGIO WITH HIS SON in the Yankee clubhouse. Walking
down the runway, Joe in uniform. Number five.
<b> PULLBACK REVEALS:
</b>
A WALL COVERED WITH BASEBALL PICTURES behind a small table
covered with objects and lit candles. A baseball, an old
baseball card, a broken bat, a rosin bag, a jar of pine tar --
also a peacock feather, a silk shawl, a picture of Isadora
Duncan. Clearly, the arrangement is -- A SHRINE -- And it
glows with the candles like some religious altar.
We hear a woman's voice in a North Carolina accent.
<b>
|
dissolve
|
How many times does the word 'dissolve' appear in the text?
| 2
|
sign compact in Washington.
Proposition just made to Portugal, and may be accepted. Special envoys
now working in Mexico and Central and South America. Germany invited to
join, but refuses as yet, giving, however, tacit support; attitude of
Russia and Japan unknown to me. Prince Benedetto d'Abruzzi, believed to
be in Washington at present, has absolute power to sign for Italy,
France and Spain. Profound secrecy enjoined and preserved. I learned of
it by underground. Shall I inform our minister? Cable instructions."
"So much!" commented Mr. Campbell.
He clasped his hands behind his head, lay back in his chair and sat for
a long time, staring with steadfast, thoughtful eyes into the impassive
face of his subordinate. Mr. Grimm perched himself on the edge of the
desk and with his legs dangling read the despatch a second time, and a
third.
"If," he observed slowly, "if any other man than Gault had sent that I
should have said he was crazy."
"The peace of the world is in peril, Mr. Grimm," said Campbell
impressively, at last. "It had to come, of course, the United States and
England against a large part of Europe and all of Central and South
America. It had to come, and yet--!"
He broke off abruptly, and picked up the receiver of his desk
telephone.
"The White House, please," he requested curtly, and then, after a
moment: "Hello! Please ask the president if he will receive Mr. Campbell
immediately. Yes, Mr. Campbell of the Secret Service." There was a
pause. Mr. Grimm removed his immaculate person from the desk, and took a
chair. "Hello! In half an hour? So much!"
The pages of the Almanac de Gotha fluttered through his fingers, and
finally he leaned forward and studied a paragraph of it closely. When he
raised his eyes again there was that in them which Mr. Grimm had never
seen before--a settled, darkening shadow.
"The world-war has long been a chimera, Mr. Grimm," he remarked at last,
"but now--now! Think of it! Of course, the Central and South American
countries, taken separately, are inconsequential, and that is true, too,
of the Latin countries of Europe, except France, but taken in
combination, under one directing mind, the allied navies would be--would
be formidable, at least. Backed by the moral support of Germany, and
perhaps Japan--! Don't you see? Don't you see?"
He lapsed into silence. Mr. Grimm opened his lips to ask a question: Mr.
Campbell anticipated it unerringly:
"The purpose of such an alliance? It is not too much to construe it into
the first step toward a world-war--a war of reprisal and conquest beside
which the other great wars of the world would seem trivial. For the fact
has at last come home to the nations of the world that ultimately the
English-speaking peoples will dominate it--dominate it, because they are
the practical peoples. They have given to the world all its great
practical inventions--the railroad, the steamship, electricity, the
telegraph and cable--all of them; they are the great civilizing forces,
rounding the world up to new moral understanding, for what England has
done in Africa and India we have done in a smaller way in the
Philippines and Cuba and Porto Rico; they are the great commercial
peoples, slowly but surely winning the market-places of the earth;
wherever the English or the American flag is planted there the English
tongue is being spoken, and there the peoples are being taught the
sanity of right living and square dealing.
"It requires no great effort of the imagination, Mr. Grimm, to foresee
that day when the traditional power of Paris, and Berlin, and St.
Petersburg, and Madrid will be honey-combed by the steady encroachment
of our methods. This alliance would indicate that already that day has
been foreseen; that there is now a resentment which is about to find
expression in one great, desperate struggle for world supremacy. A few
hundred years ago Italy--or Rome--was stripped of her power; only
recently the United States dispelled the illusion that Spain was
anything but
|
last
|
How many times does the word 'last' appear in the text?
| 2
|
_,
and delighted the spectators chiefly by the splendour of the costumes
and machinery employed in their representation; but, afterwards, the
chief actors spoke their parts, singing and dancing were introduced, and
the composition of masks for royal and other courtly patrons became an
occupation worthy of a poet. They were frequently combined with other
forms of amusement, all of which were, in the case of the Court, placed
under the management of a Master of Revels, whose official title was
Magister Jocorum, Revellorum et _Mascorum_; in the first printed English
tragedy, _Gorboduc_ (1565), each act opens with what is called a
dumb-show or mask. But the more elaborate form of the Mask soon grew to
be an entertainment complete in itself, and the demand for such became
so great in the time of James I. and Charles I. that the history of
these reigns might almost be traced in the succession of masks then
written. Ben Jonson, who thoroughly established the Mask in English
literature, wrote many Court Masks, and made them a vehicle less for the
display of 'painting and carpentry' than for the expression of the
intellectual and social life of his time. His masks are excelled only
by _Comus_, and possess in a high degree that 'Doric delicacy' in their
songs and odes which Sir Henry Wotton found so ravishing in Milton's
mask. Jonson, in his lifetime, declared that, next himself, only
Fletcher and Chapman could write a mask; and apart from the compositions
of these writers and of William Browne (_Inner Temple Masque_), there
are few specimens worthy to be named along with Jonson's until we come
to Milton's _Arcades_. Other mask-writers were Middleton, Dekker,
Shirley, Carew, and Davenant; and it is interesting to note that in
Carew's _Coelum Brittanicum_ (1633-4), for which Lawes composed the
music, the two boys who afterwards acted in _Comus_ had juvenile parts.
It has been pointed out that the popularity of the Mask in Milton's
youth received a stimulus from the Puritan hatred of the theatre which
found expression at that time, and drove non-Puritans to welcome the
Mask as a protest against that spirit which saw nothing but evil in
every form of dramatic entertainment. Milton, who enjoyed the
theatre--both "Jonson's learned sock" and what "ennobled hath the
buskined stage"--was led, through his friendship with the musician
Lawes, to compose a mask to celebrate the entry of the Earl of
Bridgewater upon his office of "Lord President of the Council in the
Principality of Wales and the Marches of the same." He had already
written, also at the request of Lawes, a mask, or portion of a mask,
called _Arcades_, and the success of this may have stimulated him to
higher effort. The result was _Comus_, in which the Mask reached its
highest level, and after which it practically faded out of our
literature.
Milton's two masks, _Arcades_ and _Comus_, were written for members of
the same noble family, the former in honour of the Countess Dowager of
Derby, and the latter in honour of John, first Earl of Bridgewater, who
was both her stepson and son-in-law. This two-fold relation arose from
the fact that the Earl was the son of Viscount Brackley, the Countess's
second husband, and had himself married Lady Frances Stanley, a daughter
of the Countess by her first husband, the fifth Earl of Derby. Amongst
the children of the Earl of Bridgewater were three who took important
parts in the representation of _Comus_--Alice, the youngest daughter,
then about fourteen years of age, who appeared as _The Lady_; John,
Viscount Brackley, who took the part of the _Elder Brother_, and Thomas
Egerton, who appeared as the _Second Brother_. We do not know who acted
the parts of _Comus_ and _Sabrina_, but the part of the _Attendant
Spirit_ was taken by Henry Lawes, "gentleman of the Chapel Royal, and
one of His Majesty's private musicians." The Earl's children were his
pupils, and the mask was naturally
|
lady
|
How many times does the word 'lady' appear in the text?
| 0
|
</b>
Tree branches enter into the frame, the camera pans
down and we see a truck approaching. We are at a
crossroads in the moors, looking sinister enough to
have earned their literary reputation.
The truck stops at the crossroads, the DRIVER,
mustached and wearing tweeds, boots, and a muffler,
climbs down.
"Moon Shadow" ends.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
Loud bang of the back grating on the truck as it slams
down. Revealed among the sheep are two rudely-awakened
young American boys. They look exhausted. They both
carry backpacks, two American kids on a jaunt in
Europe. They are both in their late twenties.
It is very cold and they clamber out of the truck none
too happily. Pushing sheep aside they step out and
stretch.
<b> JACK GOODMAN AND DAVID KESSLER
</b>
They've been cramped for hours.
<b> TRUCK DRIVER
</b> Here, lads, East Proctor and
all about are the moors. I go
east here.
<b> JACK
</b> Yes, well thank you very much
for the ride, sir. You have
lovely sheep.
<b> TRUCK DRIVER
</b> (as he clambers back
up on his truck)
Boys, keep off the moors.
Stay on the road. Good luck
to you.
<b> DAVID
</b> Thanks again!
He drives off. LONG SHOT of the two boys as the lorry
pulls away. Surrounding them are the moors. They put
on their packs, David points to the signpost pointing
towards East Proctor.
<b> EXT. ROAD ON THE MOORS - NIGHT
</b>
As they walk, their breath visible:
<b> JACK
</b> Are you cold?
<b> DAVID
</b> Yes.
<b>
|
their
|
How many times does the word 'their' appear in the text?
| 3
|
to his old horse, and to the ancient
vehicle which had been the signal of distress before so many doors for
forty years. "I can trust old Nettie," he would say. "She doesn't freeze
her radiator on cold nights, she doesn't skid, and if I drop asleep
she'll take me home and into my own barn, which is more than any
automobile would do."
"I'm going to sleep," he said comfortably. "Get Wallie Sayre--I see he's
back from some place again--or ask a nice girl. Ask Elizabeth Wheeler. I
don't think Lucy here expects to be the only woman in your life."
Dick stared into the windshield.
"I've been wondering about that, David," he said, "just how much
right--"
"Balderdash!" David snorted. "Don't get any fool notion in your head."
Followed a short silence with Dick driving automatically and thinking.
Finally he drew a long breath.
"All right," he said, "how about that golf--you need exercise. You're
putting on weight, and you know it. And you smoke too much. It's either
less tobacco or more walking, and you ought to know it."
David grunted, but he turned to Lucy Crosby, in the rear seat:
"Lucy, d'you know where my clubs are?"
"You loaned them to Jim Wheeler last fall. If you get three of them back
you're lucky." Mrs. Crosby's voice was faintly tart. Long ago she
had learned that her brother's belongings were his only by right of
purchase, and were by way of being community property. When, early
in her widowhood and her return to his home, she had found that her
protests resulted only in a sort of clandestine giving or lending, she
had exacted a promise from him. "I ask only one thing, David," she
had said. "Tell me where the things go. There wasn't a blanket for the
guest-room bed at the time of the Diocesan Convention."
"I'll run around to the Wheelers' and get them," Dick observed, in a
carefully casual voice. "I'll see the Carter baby, too, David, and that
clears the afternoon. Any message?"
Lucy glanced at him, but David moved toward the house.
"Give Elizabeth a kiss for me," he called over his shoulder, and went
chuckling up the path.
II
Mrs. Crosby stood on the pavement, gazing after the car as it moved off.
She had not her brother's simplicity nor his optimism. Her married years
had taken her away from the environment which had enabled him to live
his busy, uncomplicated life; where, the only medical man in a growing
community, he had learned to form his own sturdy decisions and then to
abide by them.
Black and white, right and wrong, the proper course and the improper
course--he lived in a sort of two-dimensional ethical world. But to Lucy
Crosby, between black and white there was a gray no-man's land of doubt
and indecision; a half-way house of compromise, and sometimes David
frightened her. He was so sure.
She passed the open door into the waiting-room, where sat two or three
patient and silent figures, and went back to the kitchen. Minnie, the
elderly servant, sat by the table reading, amid the odor of roasting
chicken; outside the door on the kitchen porch was the freezer
containing the dinner ice-cream. An orderly Sunday peace was in the air,
a gesture of homely comfort, order and security.
Minnie got up.
"I'll unpin your veil for you," she offered, obligingly. "You've got
time to lie down about ten minutes. Mrs. Morgan said she's got to have
her ears treated."
"I hope she doesn't sit and talk for an hour."
"She'll talk, all right," Minnie observed, her mouth full of pins.
"She'd be talking to me yet if I'd stood there. She's got her nerve,
too, that woman."
"I don't like to hear you speak so of the patients who come to the
house, Minnie."
"Well, I don't like their asking me questions about the family either,"
|
david
|
How many times does the word 'david' appear in the text?
| 6
|
the small
stage. Body language and charisma tell us that Caesar is the
boss, "Ducks" his lieutenant.
<b> DUCKS
</b> It's Peezee. Gotta be. He hates your
fuckin' guts.
<b> CAESAR
</b> (brooding)
I don't know.
<b> DUCKS
</b> Who else knew about the money? And
how did Peezee know they popped Tony
Cisco when we didn't even hear about
it 'til last night?
<b> CAESAR
</b> (sighs heavily)
I don't know.
<b> DUCKS
</b> (pressing)
What is so hard to understand here?
You said yourself Peezee was a
mamaluke and you couldn't trust him.
Now suddenly you're soft on the guy?
<b> CAESAR
</b> I just don't think it was him.
<b> DUCKS
</b> Okay, I'll bite. If not Peezee, then
who?
<b> CAESAR
</b> (slowly rising to
his full height)
I think it was you, Ducks.
Caesar starts to walk away as the bartender, now holding a
sawed-off shotgun, moves closer to Ducks. The exotic dancer
splits in a hurry through a curtain at the back of the stage.
<b> DUCKS
</b> (scared)
You gotta be kiddin'!
Caesar stops at the door where two of his soldiers have
<b>
</b><b> 2.
</b>appeared, holding AUTOMATIC WEAPONS.
<b> DUCK
|
caesar
|
How many times does the word 'caesar' appear in the text?
| 6
|
A MIDDLE-AGED AFRICAN-AMERICAN MAN carries his single bag of
groceries. The man listens and watches carefully, as he
negotiates the darkness between the few pools of light on the
street.
We won't see his face until he reaches the next pool of
light, but he walks with shoulders hunched in fear.
Moving down the block, all shops abandoned. Broken windows.
Rats. The man almost trips over a vague shadow passed out
and crumpled in an abandoned doorway. It's the crackhead we
saw mumbling himself into the nod-off zone. He's still
faintly singing a part of the bones song as the man passes.
He stops in the light.
And we see it's SHOTGUN: 20 years of fear and loathing etched
on his face. He freezes, listening for a second to the
crackheads wheezing mumbles - no - it's something else he's
listening for -- and hearing.
From behind him a low wheezy sound, like some huge panting
dog. He stops. And it stops. He walks on and it follows:
As he hurries to the next pool of light and safety, his ears
strain for the nearly silent padding and wheezing steadily
following.
Suddenly, he hears that panting closer and closer until it's
nearly right behind him. He starts running, though he hasn't
yet seen anything. Only heard the mongrel hot on his heels.
<b> FOLLOW WITH SHOTGUN
</b>
As he stumbles, careens, and wheezes through the streets and
alleys, terrified. Winded, he eventually stops, his hand
trembling into his shopping bag, seeking a weapon.
And we see the building he's paused beside: Bones' place.
Pockmarked by age. Like the face of some furious old man.
Now he can almost feel the dog's breath on the back of his
neck...Shotgun spins, whipping a bottle of milk out of the
bag and hurling it into the darkness behind him.
The bottle smashes against the wall of Bones' building. For
a second, silhouetted against the now whited wall, the tall,
too tall, shape of the skinny black dog.
Without waiting to see what he hit, Shotgun takes off running
to reach his building across the street. The sound of the
dog's nails skittering across the street right behind him --
|
walks
|
How many times does the word 'walks' appear in the text?
| 1
|
as would enable stations to be built and depôts established.
In 1879 Stanley was at work with characteristic energy. His own intentions
were admirable. "We shall require but mere contact," he wrote, "to satisfy
the natives that our intentions are pure and honourable, seeking their own
good, materially and socially, more than our own interests. We go to
spread what blessings arise from amiable and just intercourse with people
who have been strangers to them." Stanley was a hard man, but he was no
hypocrite. What he said he undoubtedly meant. It is worth remarking, in
view of the accounts of the laziness or stupidity of the natives given by
King Leopold's apologists in order to justify their conduct toward them,
that Stanley had the very highest opinion of their industry and commercial
ability. The following extracts from his writings set this matter beyond
all doubt:
"Bolobo is a great centre for the ivory and camwood powder trade,
principally because its people are so enterprising."
Of Irebu--"a Venice of the Congo"--he says:
"These people were really acquainted with many lands and tribes on the
Upper Congo. From Stanley Pool to Upoto, a distance of 6,000 miles,
they knew every landing-place on the river banks. All the ups and
downs of savage life, all the profits and losses derived from barter,
all the diplomatic arts used by tactful savages, were as well known to
them as the Roman alphabet to us.... No wonder that all this
commercial knowledge had left its traces on their faces; indeed, it is
the same as in your own cities in Europe. Know you not the military
man among you, the lawyer and the merchant, the banker, the artist, or
the poet? It is the same in Africa, MORE ESPECIALLY ON THE CONGO,
WHERE THE PEOPLE ARE SO DEVOTED TO TRADE."
"During the few days of our mutual intercourse they gave us a high
idea of their qualities--industry, after their own style, not being
the least conspicuous."
"As in the old time, Umangi, from the right bank, and Mpa, from the
left bank, despatched their representatives with ivory tusks, large
and small, goats and sheep, and vegetable food, clamorously demanding
that we should buy from them. Such urgent entreaties, accompanied with
blandishments to purchase their stock, were difficult to resist."
"I speak of eager native traders following us for miles for the
smallest piece of cloth. I mention that after travelling many miles to
obtain cloth for ivory and redwood powder, the despairing natives
asked: 'Well, what is it you do want? Tell us, and we will get it for
you.'"
Speaking of English scepticism as to King Leopold's intentions, he says:
"Though they understand the satisfaction of a sentiment when applied
to England, they are slow to understand that it may be a sentiment
that induced King Leopold II. to father this International
Association. He is a dreamer, like his _confrères_ in the work,
because the sentiment is applied to the neglected millions of the Dark
Continent. They cannot appreciate rightly, because there are no
dividends attaching to it, this ardent, vivifying and expansive
sentiment, which seeks to extend civilizing influences among the dark
races, and to brighten up with the glow of civilization the dark
places of sad-browed Africa."
One cannot let these extracts pass without noting that Bolobo, the first
place named by Stanley, has sunk in population from 40,000 to 7,000; that
Irebu, called by Stanley the populous Venice of the Congo, had in 1903 a
population of fifty; that the natives who used to follow Stanley,
beseeching him to trade, now, according to Consul Casement, fly into the
bush at the approach of a steamer, and that the unselfish sentiment of
King Leopold II
|
africa
|
How many times does the word 'africa' appear in the text?
| 1
|
and Maria, the twins, women
forty years old, born on the place the year after General Moreno brought
home his handsome young bride; their two daughters, Rosa and Anita the
Little, as she was still called, though she outweighed her mother; old
Juanita, the oldest woman in the household, of whom even the Senora was
said not to know the exact age or history; and she, poor thing, could
tell nothing, having been silly for ten years or more, good for nothing
except to shell beans: that she did as fast and well as ever, and was
never happy except she was at it. Luckily for her, beans are the one
crop never omitted or stinted on a Mexican estate; and for sake of old
Juanita they stored every year in the Moreno house, rooms full of beans
in the pod (tons of them, one would think), enough to feed an army. But
then, it was like a little army even now, the Senora's household; nobody
ever knew exactly how many women were in the kitchen, or how many men
in the fields. There were always women cousins, or brother's wives or
widows or daughters, who had come to stay, or men cousins, or sister's
husbands or sons, who were stopping on their way up or down the valley.
When it came to the pay-roll, Senor Felipe knew to whom he paid wages;
but who were fed and lodged under his roof, that was quite another
thing. It could not enter into the head of a Mexican gentleman to make
either count or account of that. It would be a disgraceful niggardly
thought.
To the Senora it seemed as if there were no longer any people about the
place. A beggarly handful, she would have said, hardly enough to do the
work of the house, or of the estate, sadly as the latter had dwindled.
In the General's day, it had been a free-handed boast of his that never
less than fifty persons, men, women and children, were fed within his
gates each day; how many more, he did not care, nor know. But that time
had indeed gone, gone forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden
rush and muster at door and window, which followed on old Marda's
letting fly the water at Juan's head, would have thought, "Good heavens,
do all those women, children, and babies belong in that one house!" the
Senora's sole thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was,
"Poor things! how few there are left of them! I am afraid old Marda has
to work too hard. I must spare Margarita more from the house to help
her." And she sighed deeply, and unconsciously held her rosary nearer to
her heart, as she went into the house and entered her son's bedroom. The
picture she saw there was one to thrill any mother's heart; and as it
met her eye, she paused on the threshold for a second,--only a second,
however; and nothing could have astonished Felipe Moreno so much as to
have been told that at the very moment when his mother's calm voice was
saying to him, "Good morning, my son, I hope you have slept well, and
are better," there was welling up in her heart a passionate ejaculation,
"O my glorious son! The saints have sent me in him the face of his
father! He is fit for a kingdom!"
The truth is, Felipe Moreno was not fit for a kingdom at all. If he had
been, he would not have been so ruled by his mother without ever finding
it out. But so far as mere physical beauty goes, there never was a
king born, whose face, stature, and bearing would set off a crown or a
throne, or any of the things of which the outside of royalty is made up,
better than would Felipe Moreno's. And it was true, as the Senora said,
whether the saints had anything to do with it or not, that he had the
face of his father. So strong a likeness is seldom seen. When Felipe
once, on the occasion of a grand celebration and procession, put on the
gold-wrought velvet mantle, gayly embroidered short breeches fastened at
the knee with red ribbons, and gold-and-silver-trimmed sombrero, which
his father had worn twenty-five years before, the
|
that
|
How many times does the word 'that' appear in the text?
| 8
|
><b>
</b> Short story by
<b>
</b> Shane Acker
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> SEQ. 05 - PROLOGUE
</b><b>
</b> The Focus Features logo appears on screen and we slide INTO
the "O" in Focus.
<b>
</b> Stock dissolves from 35mm to 16mm. BLACK & WHITE. GRAINY,
like OLD DOCUMENTARY FOOTAGE.
<b>
</b><b> SCIENTIST'S VOICE
</b> Experiment 208, day 20...
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> INT. SCIENTIST'S LAB - DAY
</b>
We see an early incarnation of a MACHINE (this will be the
inner brain of the FABRICATION MACHINE). We see the
scientist, in a white coat.
<b>
</b> We pull back to see the Scientist is playing a complicated
MULTI-LEVEL 3-D chess game on a MULTI-LEVEL GAME BOARD with
the MACHINE. The Scientist makes an elaborate multi-level
move. The Machine reaches an arm out into the chess game but
then malfunctions and strews the game everywhere.
<b>
</b> We pull back further to see the back and legs of the
DICTATOR, with black-uniformed soldiers flanking him. The
regime's emblem can be seen on the uniforms.
<b>
</b><b> DICTATOR
</b> Useless.
<b>
</b><b> SCIENTIST
</b>
|
scientist
|
How many times does the word 'scientist' appear in the text?
| 5
|
January 8th, 2010
EYES. Expressive, alive. Human?
No. They belong to a FEMALE CHIMPANZEE: BRIGHT EYES.
<b> EXT. GROVE OF TREES -- DAY
</b>
She sits in a tree with ALPHA, her mate - large and muscular,
a PROMINENT WHITE BIRTHMARK ACROSS HIS SHOULDER, LIKE A
<b> SHOOTING STAR.
</b> Around them, under the TREE CANOPY, a COMMUNITY OF
CHIMPANZEES naps, eats, plays.
<b> EXT. WEST AFRICAN JUNGLE - DAY
</b>
A DOZEN POACHERS on horseback slog through the jungle.
They're working towards the GROVE, visible in the distance.
As they near it, the LEADER points, sending the MEN moving
quietly, NETS and RIFLES ready.
<b> EXT. CANOPY - DAY
</b>
Alpha sits up, sensing something. BIRDS take sudden flight.
He stands on the branch and YELLS OUT A WARNING. FEAR
ignites the community - but too late.
POACHERS BURST INTO THE CLEARING, horses' hooves kicking up
dirt. CHIMPS SCATTER.
Bright Eyes wants to stay by Alpha's side, but he bares his
teeth and sends her off.
Then he drops, landing firmly on the clearing floor. All
around him, POACHERS pursue terrified apes, nets swinging.
MALE CHIMPANZEES jump up and down, SHOUTING AND SCREECHING -
an aggressive show. A futile attempt to protect the tribe.
Alpha zeroes in on a POACHER attempting to scoop up a YOUNG
CHIMP. He streaks across the clearing, KNOCKS THE POACHER
<b> FROM HIS MOUNT.
</b> Alpha POUNDS his CHEST, letting out a BATTLE CRY -- trying to
rally a counter-attack.
But the other chimps pay no heed. There's no organization to
the defense. It's chaos.
SHOTS RING OUT. The Chimps mauling the Poacher drop, one by
one. Others take off.
<b> 2.
</b>
|
across
|
How many times does the word 'across' appear in the text?
| 1
|
THIS SCRIPT CONTAINED SCENE NUMBERS
</b><b> AND SOME "OMITTED" SLUGS. THEY HAVE BEEN REMOVED FOR THIS
</b><b> SOFT COPY.
</b>
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
All we can see is black filling the screen... Black on
black...
<b> INT. A JEEP, LEBANON - DAY
</b>
And we're in a speeding SOVIET JEEP... Two men in front,
shouldering assault rifles. HEZBOLLAH SOLDIERS... And there
are three MEN in the back. A middle-aged Man wearing a tired
suit and tinted sunglasses trying to hold on. And on either
side of him, two Men, blindfolded. The man on one side is in
his forties, hands pressed in the pockets of a well-travelled
black-leather jacket... A stocky man, with the edge of a
J.D. Salinger character, he's seen everything at least once.
But even he has lost some of his self-confidence, here,
turning his head, sensing the wind, a blast of Arabic music
that disappears behind him... He's LOWELL BERGMAN. On the
other side of the man in the tired suit is a lanky Man with a
voltmeter around his neck, NORMAN.
<b> EXT. THE BEQA'A VALLEY, BAALBEK, LEBANON - DAY
</b>
The Jeep races up narrow winding streets of a Lebanese
village. It's shadowed by a Jeep in front, and in back, each
carrying personnel armed with AK's and a few RPG's... And in
the third Jeep are two blindfolded, not very threatening
Lebanese soldiers. And as the speeding convoy passes a
captured Israeli Armored Personnel Carrier covered with
Arabic graffiti, looking down on them from huge murals are
the stern visages of the Ayatollah Khomeini, and a Hezbollah
religious leader, the Sheikh Fadlallah... And, suddenly the
convoy skids to a stop... And blindfolded Lowell and Norman
are roughly taken out, and pushed, stumbling, through the
cloud of dust without sight... The lanky cameraman is
stopped, told to wait, while Lowell is pushed past armed men
guarding a small stone house, and inside...
<b> INT. A HOUSE IN LEBANON - DAY
</b>
A round-faced Man in his mid-forties, with large-framed
glasses, black hair and a grey-black beard, wearing a
dullbend, a turban, sits informally at a kitchen table...
It's the Sheikh Fadlallah whose face stares out at us from
walls. A Gunman cradling an AK-47 sits in an incongruous
purple armchair in a corner. A torn poster of the Seychelles
is on one wall. Another Gunman stands by a window. Lowell
is sat down in a chair at the kitchen table...
<b> THE SHEIKH
</b> Coffee?
<b> LOWELL
</b> Yeah... Thank you.
<
|
soldiers
|
How many times does the word 'soldiers' appear in the text?
| 1
|
though of course there were no
women there in my time, I felt confident that if the atmosphere of the
eighteenth century still existed anywhere in England, it would be at
Cambridge. About three months ago she wrote to me and asked whether I
wished to give her a present on her next birthday. Of course I said
yes; and she then astonished and delighted me by telling me that she
had written a play, and that the present she wanted was a private
performance of it with real actors and real critics.
SAVOYARD. Yes: thats what staggered me. It was easy enough to engage
a company for a private performance: it's done often enough. But the
notion of having critics was new. I hardly knew how to set about it.
They dont expect private engagements; and so they have no agents.
Besides, I didnt know what to offer them. I knew that they were cheaper
than actors, because they get long engagements: forty years sometimes;
but thats no rule for a single job. Then theres such a lot of them: on
first nights they run away with all your stalls: you cant find a decent
place for your own mother. It would have cost a fortune to bring the
lot.
THE COUNT. Of course I never dreamt of having them all. Only a few
first-rate representative men.
SAVOYARD. Just so. All you want is a few sample opinions. Out of a
hundred notices you wont find more than four at the outside that say
anything different. Well, Ive got just the right four for you. And what
do you think it has cost me?
THE COUNT. [shrugging his shoulders] I cannot guess.
SAVOYARD. Ten guineas, and expenses. I had to give Flawner Bannal ten.
He wouldnt come for less; and he asked fifty. I had to give it, because
if we hadnt had him we might just as well have had nobody at all.
THE COUNT. But what about the others, if Mr Flannel--
SAVOYARD. [shocked] Flawner Bannal.
THE COUNT. --if Mr Bannal got the whole ten?
SAVOYARD. Oh, I managed that. As this is a high-class sort of thing, the
first man I went for was Trotter.
THE COUNT. Oh indeed. I am very glad you have secured Mr Trotter. I have
read his Playful Impressions.
SAVOYARD. Well, I was rather in a funk about him. Hes not exactly what
I call approachable; and he was a bit stand-off at first. But when I
explained and told him your daughter--
THE COUNT. [interrupting in alarm] You did not say that the play was by
her, I hope?
SAVOYARD. No: thats been kept a dead secret. I just said your daughter
has asked for a real play with a real author and a real critic and all
the rest of it. The moment I mentioned the daughter I had him. He has
a daughter of his own. Wouldnt hear of payment! Offered to come just to
please her! Quite human. I was surprised.
THE COUNT. Extremely kind of him.
SAVOYARD. Then I went to Vaughan, because he does music as well as the
drama: and you said you thought there would be music. I told him Trotter
would feel lonely without him; so he promised like a bird. Then I
thought youd like one of the latest sort: the chaps that go for the
newest things and swear theyre oldfashioned. So I nailed Gilbert Gunn.
The four will give you a representative team. By the way [looking at his
watch] theyll be here presently.
THE COUNT. Before they come, Mr Savoyard, could you give me any hints
about them that would help me to make a little conversation with them?
I am, as you said, rather out of it in England; and I might unwittingly
say something tactless.
SAVOYARD. Well, let me see. As you dont like English people, I dont know
that youll get on with Trotter, because hes thoroughly English: never
happy except when hes in Paris, and speaks French so unnecessarily well
that everybody there spots him as an Englishman the moment he
|
savoyard
|
How many times does the word 'savoyard' appear in the text?
| 9
|
Rev. 05/31/01 (Buff)
<b>
</b> OCEAN'S 11 - Rev. 1/8/01
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b>1 EMPTY ROOM WITH SINGLE CHAIR 1
</b>
We hear a DOOR OPEN and CLOSE, followed by APPROACHING
FOOTSTEPS. DANNY OCEAN, dressed in prison fatigues,
ENTERS FRAME and sits.
<b> VOICE (O.S.)
</b> Good morning.
<b> DANNY
</b> Good morning.
<b> VOICE (O.S.)
</b> Please state your name for the
record.
<b> DANNY
</b> Daniel Ocean.
<b> VOICE (O.S.)
</b> Thank you. Mr. Ocean, the purpose
of this meeting is to determine
whether, if released, you are
likely to break the law again.
While this was your first
conviction, you have been
implicated, though never charged,
in over a dozen other confidence
schemes and frauds. What can you
tell us about this?
<b> DANNY
</b> As you say, ma'am, I was never
charged.
<b>2 INT. PAROLE BOARD HEARING ROOM - WIDER VIEW - MORNING 2
</b>
Three PAROLE BOARD MEMBERS sit opposite Danny, behind a
table.
<b> BOARD MEMBER #2
</b> Mr. Ocean, what we're trying to
find out is: was there a reason
you chose to commit this crime, or
was there
|
again
|
How many times does the word 'again' appear in the text?
| 0
|
Only his boots, spurs, whip, the taut reins, the horse's
foamy mouth, the movements that steer the animal.
We watch him for a while and hear the SNORTS of the
horse, the dull SOUND of THE HOOVES on the ground, the
fast-uttered COMMANDS of the rider. Then we start to
hear a gentle voice:
NARRATOR (o.s.):I don't know if the story that I
want to tell you, reflects the truth in every
detail. Much of it I only know by hearsay, and a
lot of it remains obscure to me even today, and
I must leave it in darkness. Many of these
questions remain without answer. But I believe I
must tell of the strange events that occurred in
our village, because they may cast a new light
on some of the goings-on in this country...
<b>LONG SHOT OF THE RIDING STABLES.
</b>The rider is the village doctor, a gaunt, intellectual-
looking man of around 60, who has finished his dressage
session, and now rides toward the open gate beside the
CAMERA, goes through it and into the landscape. We see
him in the avenue, now visible behind him, and watch him
grow smaller until he vanishes.
NARRATOR (o.s. continuing):...Everything began,
if I remember correctly, with the doctor's
riding accident. After his dressage session in
the manor's riding school, he was first headed
for his home...
<b>
</b>
<b>2. THE DOCTOR'S PROPERTY EXT/DAY
</b>
The garden opens up on the meadows and fields of the
flat countryside.
The doctor lies beside his wounded horse. His arm is
strangely twisted, his broken collarbone has made a bump
in the blood-drenched jacket. He yells with pain.
After a few moments Xenia, the doctor's 12-year old
daughter, comes running out of the house. She rushes up
to her father and looks at him, horrified, then at the
twitching horse, screams with horror. Her father shouts
something to her, she bends over him and tries to raise
him to his feet. He screams at her as he's in such pain.
She staggers back helplessly, he shouts something to her
again, whereupon she runs off. We hear all this from far
away, because during the whole scene the narrator has
continued his tale:
<b> 2
</b><b>
</b> NARRATOR: ...to see if any of his patients had
arrived. As it entered the property, the horse
had tripped over a hardly visible, taut wire
that had been strung between two trees.
The doctor's fourteen-year old daughter had
watched the accident from the window of the
house, and was able to inform the woman who was
their neighbor, who in turn got the message to
the manor house, so that the agonizing doctor
could be transported to the hospital of the
district capital that was over 30 kilometers
away...
<b>
</b
|
narrator
|
How many times does the word 'narrator' appear in the text?
| 3
|
rona?â queried Stepan Arkadyevitch, going up to
her at the door.
Although Stepan Arkadyevitch was completely in the wrong as regards his
wife, and was conscious of this himself, almost everyone in the house
(even the nurse, Darya Alexandrovnaâs chief ally) was on his side.
âWell, what now?â he asked disconsolately.
âGo to her, sir; own your fault again. Maybe God will aid you. She is
suffering so, itâs sad to see her; and besides, everything in the house
is topsy-turvy. You must have pity, sir, on the children. Beg her
forgiveness, sir. Thereâs no help for it! One must take the
consequences....â
âBut she wonât see me.â
âYou do your part. God is merciful; pray to God, sir, pray to God.â
âCome, thatâll do, you can go,â said Stepan Arkadyevitch, blushing
suddenly. âWell now, do dress me.â He turned to Matvey and threw off
his dressing-gown decisively.
Matvey was already holding up the shirt like a horseâs collar, and,
blowing off some invisible speck, he slipped it with obvious pleasure
over the well-groomed body of his master.
Chapter 3
When he was dressed, Stepan Arkadyevitch sprinkled some scent on
himself, pulled down his shirt-cuffs, distributed into his pockets his
cigarettes, pocketbook, matches, and watch with its double chain and
seals, and shaking out his handkerchief, feeling himself clean,
fragrant, healthy, and physically at ease, in spite of his unhappiness,
he walked with a slight swing on each leg into the dining-room, where
coffee was already waiting for him, and beside the coffee, letters and
papers from the office.
He read the letters. One was very unpleasant, from a merchant who was
buying a forest on his wifeâs property. To sell this forest was
absolutely essential; but at present, until he was reconciled with his
wife, the subject could not be discussed. The most unpleasant thing of
all was that his pecuniary interests should in this way enter into the
question of his reconciliation with his wife. And the idea that he
might be led on by his interests, that he might seek a reconciliation
with his wife on account of the sale of the forestâthat idea hurt him.
When he had finished his letters, Stepan Arkadyevitch moved the
office-papers close to him, rapidly looked through two pieces of
business, made a few notes with a big pencil, and pushing away the
papers, turned to his coffee. As he sipped his coffee, he opened a
still damp morning paper, and began reading it.
Stepan Arkadyevitch took in and read a liberal paper, not an extreme
one, but one advocating the views held by the majority. And in spite of
the fact that science, art, and politics had no special interest for
him, he firmly held those views on all these subjects which were held
by the majority and by his paper, and he only changed them when the
majority changed themâor, more strictly speaking, he did not change
them, but they imperceptibly changed of themselves within him.
Stepan Arkadyevitch had not chosen his political opinions or his views;
these political opinions and views had come to him of themselves, just
as he did not choose the shapes of his hat and coat, but simply took
those that were being worn. And for him, living in a certain
societyâowing to the need, ordinarily developed at years of discretion,
for some degree of mental activityâto have views was just as
indispensable as to have a hat. If there was a reason for his
preferring liberal to conservative views, which were held also by
|
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|
How many times does the word 'from' appear in the text?
| 1
|
November 20, 1992
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> INT. HAUNTED MANSION PARLOR - NIGHT
</b>
We move through a spooky shrouded parlor, as a storm rages
outside. THUNDER roars, and lightning flashes in the giant
windows. in the center of the room lies an oak coffin.
Suddenly the lid starts to creak open. A hand crawls past
the edge... and then the lid slams up! Famed psychic CRISWELL
pops out. Criswell, 40, peers at us intently, his gleaming
eyes framed under his striking pale blonde hair. He intones,
with absolute conviction:
<b> CRISWELL
</b> Greetings, my friend. You are
interested in the unknown, the
mysterious, the unexplainable...
that is why you are here. So now,
for the first time, we are bringing
you the full story of what
happened...
(extremely serious)
We are giving you all the evidence,
based only on the secret testimony
of the miserable souls who survived
this terrifying ordeal. The
incidents, the places, my friend, we
cannot keep this a secret any longer.
Can your hearts stand the shocking
facts of the true story of Edward D.
Wood, Junior??
<b> EXT. NIGHT SKY
</b>
Lightning CRACKS.
We drift down past the dark clouds... through the torrential
rain... and end up...
<b> OPTICAL:
</b>
<b> EXT. HOLLYWOOD - NIGHT
</b>
We've landed in Hollywood, 1952. We're outside a teeny, grungy
playhouse. The cracked marquee proclaims "'THE CASUAL
<b> COMPANY,' WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY EDWARD D. WOOD, JR."
</b>
Pacing nervously in the rain is ED WOOD, 30, our hero.
Larger-than-life charismatic, confident, Errol Flynn-style
handsome, Ed is a human magnet. He's a classically flawed
optimist: Sweet and well-intentioned, yet doomed by his demons
within.
The doors open, and Ed's pal JOHN "BUNNY" BRECKINRIDGE, 45,
hurries out. Bunny is a wealthy, theatrical fop wearing a
string
|
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|
How many times does the word 'past' appear in the text?
| 1
|
OF THE CASTLE
CHAPTER I
In a remote part of the county of Pembroke, is an old building, formerly
of great strength, and inhabited for centuries by the ancient family of
Mowbray; to the sole remaining branch of which it still belonged, tho'
it was, at the time this history commences, inhabited only by servants;
and the greater part of it was gone to decay. A few rooms only had been
occasionally repaired to accommodate the proprietor, when he found it
necessary to come thither to receive his rents, or to inspect the
condition of the estate; which however happened so seldom, that during
the twelve years he had been master of it, he had only once visited the
castle for a few days. The business that related to the property round
it (which was very considerable) was conducted by a steward grown grey
in the service of the family, and by an attorney from London, who came
to hold the courts. And an old housekeeper, a servant who waited on her,
the steward, and a labourer who was kept to look after his horse and
work in that part of the garden which yet bore the vestige of
cultivation, were now all its inhabitants; except a little girl, of whom
the housekeeper had the care, and who was believed to be the natural
daughter of that elder brother, by whose death Lord Montreville, the
present possessor, became entitled to the estate.
This nobleman, while yet a younger son, was (by the partiality of his
mother, who had been an heiress, and that of some other female
relations) master of a property nearly equal to what he inherited by the
death of his brother, Mr. Mowbray.
He had been originally designed for the law; but in consequence of being
entitled to the large estate which had been his mother's, and heir, by
will, to all her opulent family, he had quitted that profession, and at
the age of about four and twenty, had married Lady Eleonore Delamere, by
whom he had a son and two daughters.
The illustrious family from which Lady Eleonore descended, became
extinct in the male line by the premature death of her two brothers; and
her Ladyship becoming sole heiress, her husband took the name of
Delamere; and obtaining one of the titles of the lady's father, was, at
his death, created Viscount Montreville. Mr. Mowbray died before he was
thirty, in Italy; and Lord Montreville, on taking possession of Mowbray
Castle, found there his infant daughter.
Her mother had died soon after her birth; and she had been sent from
France, where she was born, and put under the care of Mrs. Carey, the
housekeeper, who was tenderly attached to her, having been the attendant
of Mr. Mowbray from his earliest infancy.
Lord Montreville suffered her to remain in the situation in which he
found her, and to go by the name of Mowbray: he allowed for the trifling
charge of her board and necessary cloaths in the steward's account, the
examination of which was for some years the only circumstance that
reminded him of the existence of the unfortunate orphan.
With no other notice from her father's family, Emmeline had attained her
twelfth year; an age at which she would have been left in the most
profound ignorance, if her uncommon understanding, and unwearied
application, had not supplied the deficiency of her instructors, and
conquered the disadvantages of her situation.
Mrs. Carey could indeed read with tolerable fluency, and write an hand
hardly legible: and Mr. Williamson, the old steward, had been formerly a
good penman, and was still a proficient in accounts. Both were anxious
to give their little charge all the instruction they could: but without
the quickness and attention she shewed to whatever they attempted to
teach, such preceptors could have done little.
Emmeline had a kind of intuitive knowledge; and comprehended every thing
with a facility that soon left her instructors behind her. The
precarious and neglected situation in which she lived, troubled not the
innocent Emmeline. Having never experienced any other, she felt no
uneasiness at her present lot; and on the future she was not yet old
|
this
|
How many times does the word 'this' appear in the text?
| 1
|
had to close her eyes, not knowing what to
say or do from sheer delight.
"Magnificent! It really is," she said to her companion. "Do we
fly into that?"
"Right ahead!" answered the lady-bee.
Maya raised her little head and moved her pretty new wings.
Suddenly she felt the flying-board on which she had been sitting
sink down, while the ground seemed to be gliding away behind,
and the large green domes of the tree-tops seemed to be coming
toward her.
Her eyes sparkled, her heart rejoiced.
"I am flying," she cried. "It cannot be anything else. What I am
doing must be flying. Why, it's splendid, perfectly splendid!"
"Yes, you're flying," said the lady-bee, who had difficulty in
keeping up with the child. "Those are linden-trees, those toward
which we are flying, the lindens in our castle park. You can
always tell where our city is by those lindens. But you're
flying so fast, Maya."
"Fast?" said Maya. "How can one fly fast enough? Oh, how sweet
the sunshine smells!"
"No," replied her companion, who was rather out of breath, "it's
not the sunshine, it's the flowers that smell.-- But please,
don't go so fast, else I'll drop behind. Besides, at this pace
you won't observe things and be able to find your way back."
But little Maya transported by the sunshine and the joy of
living, did not hear. She felt as though she were darting like
an arrow through a green-shimmering sea of light, to greater and
greater splendor. The bright flowers seemed to call to her, the
still, sunlit distances lured her on, and the blue sky blessed
her joyous young flight.
"Never again will it be as beautiful as it is to-day," she
thought. "I _can't_ turn back. I can't think of anything except
the sun."
Beneath her the gay pictures kept changing, the peaceful
landscape slid by slowly, in broad stretches.
"The sun must be all of gold," thought the baby-bee.
Coming to a large garden, which seemed to rest in blossoming
clouds of cherry-tree, hawthorn, and lilacs, she let herself
down to earth, dead-tired, and dropped in a bed of red tulips,
where she held on to one of the big flowers. With a great sigh
of bliss she pressed herself against the blossom-wall and looked
up to the deep blue of the sky through the gleaming edges of the
flowers.
"Oh, how beautiful it is out here in the great world, a thousand
times more beautiful than in the dark hive. I'll never go back
there again to carry honey or make wax. No, indeed, I'll never
do that. I want to see and know the world in bloom. I am not
like the other bees, my heart is meant for pleasure and
surprises, experiences and adventures. I will not be afraid of
any dangers. Haven't I got strength and courage and a sting?"
She laughed, bubbling over with delight, and took a deep draught
of nectar out of the flower of the tulip.
"Grand," she thought. "It's glorious to be alive."
Ah, if little Maya had had an inkling of the many dangers and
hardships that lay ahead of her, she would certainly have
thought twice. But never dreaming of such things, she stuck to
her resolve.
Soon tiredness overcame her, and she fell asleep. When she
awoke, the sun was gone, twilight lay upon the land. A bit
of alarm, after all. Maya's heart went a little faster.
Hesitatingly she crept out of the flower, which was about to
close up for the night, and hid herself away under a leaf high
up in the top of an old tree, where she went to sleep, thinking
in the utmost confidence:
"I'm not afraid. I won't be afraid right at the very start. The
sun is coming round again; that's certain; Cassandra said so.
The thing to do is to go to sleep quietly and sleep well."
[Illustration]
[Ill
|
edges
|
How many times does the word 'edges' appear in the text?
| 0
|
weakly constitution, which would not
have been half so dangerous to him if his mind also had been weakly.
But his mind (or at any rate that rudiment thereof which appears in the
shape of self-will even before the teeth appear) was a piece of muscular
contortion, tough as oak and hard as iron. "Pet" was his name with his
mother and his aunt; and his enemies (being the rest of mankind) said
that pet was his name and his nature.
For this dear child could brook no denial, no slow submission to his
wishes; whatever he wanted must come in a moment, punctual as an
echo. In him re-appeared not the stubbornness only, but also the keen
ingenuity of Yordas in finding out the very thing that never should be
done, and then the unerring perception of the way in which it could be
done most noxiously. Yet any one looking at his eyes would think how
tender and bright must his nature be! "He favoreth his forebears; how
can he help it?" kind people exclaimed, when they knew him. And the
servants of the house excused themselves when condemned for putting up
with him, "Yo know not what 'a is, yo that talk so. He maun get 's own
gait, lestwise yo wud chok' un."
Being too valuable to be choked, he got his own way always.
CHAPTER III
A DISAPPOINTING APPOINTMENT
For the sake of Pet Carnaby and of themselves, the ladies of the house
were disquieted now, in the first summer weather of a wet cold year, the
year of our Lord 1801. And their trouble arose as follows:
There had long been a question between the sisters and Sir Walter
Carnaby, brother of the late colonel, about an exchange of outlying
land, which would have to be ratified by "Pet" hereafter. Terms
being settled and agreement signed, the lawyers fell to at the linked
sweetness of deducing title. The abstract of the Yordas title was nearly
as big as the parish Bible, so in and out had their dealings been, and
so intricate their pugnacity.
Among the many other of the Yordas freaks was a fatuous and generally
fatal one. For the slightest miscarriage they discharged their lawyer,
and leaped into the office of a new one. Has any man moved in the
affairs of men, with a grain of common-sense or half a pennyweight of
experience, without being taught that an old tenter-hook sits easier to
him than a new one? And not only that, but in shifting his quarters he
may leave some truly fundamental thing behind.
Old Mr. Jellicorse, of Middleton in Teesdale, had won golden opinions
every where. He was an uncommonly honest lawyer, highly incapable of
almost any trick, and lofty in his view of things, when his side of them
was the legal one. He had a large collection of those interesting boxes
which are to a lawyer and his family better than caskets of silver
and gold; and especially were his shelves furnished with what might be
called the library of the Scargate title-deeds. He had been proud to
take charge of these nearly thirty years ago, and had married on the
strength of them, though warned by the rival from whom they were wrested
that he must not hope to keep them long. However, through the peaceful
incumbency of ladies, they remained in his office all those years.
This was the gentleman who had drawn and legally sped to its purport the
will of the lamented Squire Philip, who refused very clearly to leave
it, and took horse to flourish it at his rebellious son. Mr. Jellicorse
had done the utmost, as behooved him, against that rancorous testament;
but meeting with silence more savage than words, and a bow to depart,
he had yielded; and the squire stamped about the room until his job was
finished.
A fact accomplished, whether good or bad, improves in character with
every revolution of this little world around the sun, that heavenly
example of subservience. And now Mr. Jellicorse was well convinced, as
nothing had occurred to disturb that will, and the life of the testator
had been sacrificed to it, and the devisees under it were his own good
clients, and
|
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|
How many times does the word 'would' appear in the text?
| 2
|
lights held firm and steady. They were seven--like
seven little moons. One was of a pearly pink, one of a delicate
nacreous blue, one of lambent saffron, one of the emerald you see in
the shallow waters of tropic isles; a deathly white; a ghostly
amethyst; and one of the silver that is seen only when the flying fish
leap beneath the moon.
The tinkling music was louder still. It pierced the ears with a
shower of tiny lances; it made the heart beat jubilantly--and checked
it dolorously. It closed the throat with a throb of rapture and
gripped it tight with the hand of infinite sorrow!
Came to me now a murmuring cry, stilling the crystal notes. It was
articulate--but as though from something utterly foreign to this
world. The ear took the cry and translated with conscious labour into
the sounds of earth. And even as it compassed, the brain shrank from
it irresistibly, and simultaneously it seemed reached toward it with
irresistible eagerness.
Throckmartin strode toward the front of the deck, straight toward the
vision, now but a few yards away from the stern. His face had lost all
human semblance. Utter agony and utter ecstasy--there they were side
by side, not resisting each other; unholy inhuman companions blending
into a look that none of God's creatures should wear--and deep, deep
as his soul! A devil and a God dwelling harmoniously side by side! So
must Satan, newly fallen, still divine, seeing heaven and
contemplating hell, have appeared.
And then--swiftly the moon path faded! The clouds swept over the sky
as though a hand had drawn them together. Up from the south came a
roaring squall. As the moon vanished what I had seen vanished with
it--blotted out as an image on a magic lantern; the tinkling ceased
abruptly--leaving a silence like that which follows an abrupt thunder
clap. There was nothing about us but silence and blackness!
Through me passed a trembling as one who has stood on the very verge
of the gulf wherein the men of the Louisades says lurks the fisher of
the souls of men, and has been plucked back by sheerest chance.
Throckmartin passed an arm around me.
"It is as I thought," he said. In his voice was a new note; the calm
certainty that has swept aside a waiting terror of the unknown. "Now I
know! Come with me to my cabin, old friend. For now that you too have
seen I can tell you"--he hesitated--"what it was you saw," he ended.
As we passed through the door we met the ship's first officer.
Throckmartin composed his face into at least a semblance of normality.
"Going to have much of a storm?" he asked.
"Yes," said the mate. "Probably all the way to Melbourne."
Throckmartin straightened as though with a new thought. He gripped the
officer's sleeve eagerly.
"You mean at least cloudy weather--for"--he hesitated--"for the next
three nights, say?"
"And for three more," replied the mate.
"Thank God!" cried Throckmartin, and I think I never heard such relief
and hope as was in his voice.
The sailor stood amazed. "Thank God?" he repeated. "Thank--what d'ye
mean?"
But Throckmartin was moving onward to his cabin. I started to follow.
The first officer stopped me.
"Your friend," he said, "is he ill?"
"The sea!" I answered hurriedly. "He's not used to it. I am going to
look after him."
Doubt and disbelief were plain in the seaman's eyes but I hurried on.
For I knew now that Throckmartin was ill indeed--but with a sickness
the ship's doctor nor any other could heal.
CHAPTER II
"Dead! All Dead!"
He was sitting, face in hands, on the side of his berth as I entered.
He had taken off his coat.
"Throck," I cried. "What was it? What are you flying from, man?
Where
|
with
|
How many times does the word 'with' appear in the text?
| 8
|
By
Daphne Du Maurier
FINAL DRAFT 2nd Revision March 2, 1962
<b>
</b>
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> FULL SHOT - GRANT STREET - SAN FRANCISCO - DAY
</b>
It is mid-afternoon, and there is a tempo and pace to the
people walking, the doorman HOOTING for taxicabs, the
policemen directing traffic.
<b> PAN SHOT - PEDESTRIANS
</b>
waiting at street corner for light to change.
<b> CLOSE SHOT - MAN
</b>
at the end of line of pedestrians. He is looking up at the
sky.
<b> TWO SHOT - MAN AND WOMAN NEXT TO HIM
</b>
as she follows his gaze upward.
<b> LONG SHOT - THE SKY
</b>
with hundreds of gulls in it, wheeling.
<b> MED. SHOT - THE STREET CORNER
</b>
as the light changes and people begin to cross. In the crowd
walking the other way, a man turns to look up at the wheeling
gulls in the sky overhead. The CAMERA LOCATES:
<b> MED. SHOT - MELANIE DANIELS
</b>
in the crowd of pedestrians, approaching Davidson's Pet Shop.
She is a young woman in her mid-twenties, sleekly groomed,
exquisitely dressed, though hatless. She walks with the quick
sureness of the city dweller, a purposefulness in her stride,
a mischievous grin on her face. She continues toward the
front door of a pet shop and enters.
<b> INT. BIRD SHOP - MED. SHOT
</b>
Melanie opens the door and comes through, still looking back
toward the street and skywards. The proprietor, a MRS.
MacGRUDER, comes toward her.
<b> MELANIE
</b> Hello, Mrs. MacGruder, have you ever
seen so many gulls?
<b> MRS. MACGRUDER
</b> Hello, Miss Daniels.
<b> MELANIE
</b> What do you suppose it is?
<b> MED. SHOT
</b>
Mrs. MacGruder takes a look out at the sky. A puppy is
BARKING, o.s.
<b> MRS. MACGRUDER
</b> (shaking her head)
There must be a storm at sea. That
can drive them inland, you know.
They are climbing the short flight of steps into the bird
department now. The BARKING of the dog SEGUES into the clamor
of innumerable birds, TWEETING, TWITTERING, CAWING as Melanie
and Mrs. MacGruder go to the counter at the far end. There
is a circular cage in the center of the room, and the walls
are lined with wire-mesh cages and smaller wooden cages so
that the effect is one of being surrounded by birds, contained
birds to be sure. The birds are quite beautiful, mostly exotic
birds, small splashes of color behind the wire-mesh cages,
larger bursts of brilliant hue on the parrots and parakeets
in the bigger cages. As they walk:
<b>
|
macgruder
|
How many times does the word 'macgruder' appear in the text?
| 5
|
window that gleamed yellow in the night.
At a corner on which stood a little shop that advertised "Groceries and
Provisions" he paused.
"Let me see," he pondered. "The lights will be turned off, of course.
Candles. And a little something for the inner man, in case it's the
closed season for cooks."
He went inside, where a weary old woman served him.
"What sort of candles?" she inquired, with the air of one who had an
infinite variety in stock. Mr. Magee remembered that Christmas was near.
"For a Christmas tree," he explained. He asked for two hundred.
"I've only got forty," the woman said. "What's this tree for--the
Orphans' Home?"
With the added burden of a package containing his purchases in the tiny
store, Mr. Magee emerged and continued his journey through the stinging
snow. Upper Asquewan Falls on its way home for supper flitted past him
in the silvery darkness. He saw in the lighted windows of many of the
houses the green wreath of Christmas cheer. Finally the houses became
infrequent, and he struck out on an uneven road that wound upward. Once
he heard a dog's faint bark. Then a carriage lurched by him, and a
strong voice cursed the roughness of the road. Mr. Magee half smiled to
himself as he strode on.
"Don Quixote, my boy," he muttered, "I know how you felt when you moved
on the windmills."
It was not the whir of windmills but the creak of a gate in the storm
that brought Mr. Magee at last to a stop. He walked gladly up the path
to Elijah Quimby's door.
In answer to Billy Magee's gay knock, a man of about sixty years
appeared. Evidently he had just finished supper; at the moment he was
engaged in lighting his pipe. He admitted Mr. Magee into the intimacy of
the kitchen, and took a number of calm judicious puffs on the pipe
before speaking to his visitor. In that interval the visitor cheerily
seized his hand, oblivious of the warm burnt match that was in it. The
match fell to the floor, whereupon the older man cast an anxious glance
at a gray-haired woman who stood beside the kitchen stove.
"My name's Magee," blithely explained that gentleman, dragging in his
bags. "And you're Elijah Quimby, of course. How are you? Glad to see
you." His air was that of one who had known this Quimby intimately, in
many odd corners of the world.
The older man did not reply, but regarded Mr. Magee wonderingly through
white puffs of smoke. His face was kindly, gentle, ineffectual; he
seemed to lack the final "punch" that send men over the line to success;
this was evident in the way his necktie hung, the way his thin hands
fluttered.
"Yes," he admitted at last. "Yes, I'm Quimby."
Mr. Magee threw back his coat, and sprayed with snow Mrs. Quimby's
immaculate floor.
"I'm Magee," he elucidated again, "William Hallowell Magee, the man Hal
Bentley wrote to you about. You got his letter, didn't you?"
Mr. Quimby removed his pipe and forgot to close the aperture as he
stared in amazement.
"Good lord!" he cried, "you don't mean--you've really come."
"What better proof could you ask," said Mr. Magee flippantly, "than my
presence here?"
"Why," stammered Mr. Quimby, "we--we thought it was all a joke."
"Hal Bentley has his humorous moments," agreed Mr. Magee, "but it isn't
his habit to fling his jests into Upper Asquewan Falls."
"And--and you're really going to--" Mr. Quimby could get no further.
"Yes," said Mr. Magee brightly, slipping into a rocking-chair. "Yes, I'm
going to spend the next few months at Baldpate Inn."
Mrs. Quimby, who seemed to have settled into a stout little mound of
|
woman
|
How many times does the word 'woman' appear in the text?
| 2
|
</b>
IRVING ROSENFELD, not a small man, gets dressed and
meticulously constructs his combover. Camera WRAPS AROUND,
see his hands with rings adjust his dark velvet suit, up to
his face, serious, concentrated, intense, he is composing
himself before a performance.
Irving is now dressed, ready, and walks down the hall to
another room.
<b>3 SECOND PLAZA HOTEL ROOM
</b>
Irving composes himself -- looks
into cramped surveillance closet, there are FBI Agents -- we
only see their hands and arms -- he looks at monitors -- sees
a BLACK AND WHITE IMAGE OF ANOTHER ROOM ON MONITOR: MAYOR
CARMINE POLITO, swath of salt and pepper hair, cream suit,
pinky ring, Rotary Club pin -- ALONG WITH CARL ELWAY, preppie
shady businessman.
He exhales pressure, turns as CAMERA PANS TO: SYDNEY PROSSER
(who will also be known for some time as EDITH GREENSLY),
stylish crafty smart. They stare at each other intensely --
they have a deep and emotional relationship. A DOOR BANGS
OPEN, and in walks RICHIE DIMASO, Bronx-born. He stands
there.
<b> RICHIE DIMASO
</b> What are you doing, going behind my
back? Telling people I'm screwing
up this operation? I got you a
suite at the fuckin' Plaza Hotel!
<b> IRVING ROSENFELD
</b> The shittiest suite at the Plaza
Hotel.
<b> RICHIE DIMASO
</b>
What?!
<b> IRV ROSENFELD
</b> The shittiest fuckin' suite.
<b> RICHIE DIMASO
</b> Based on what--?
<b> 2.
</b>
<b> IRVING ROSENFELD
</b>
And the food is wrong, and--What is
this? You, like, went in my closet
or something?
<b> EDITH GREENSLY
</b> No
<b>
|
plaza
|
How many times does the word 'plaza' appear in the text?
| 2
|
</b>
Tree branches enter into the frame, the camera pans
down and we see a truck approaching. We are at a
crossroads in the moors, looking sinister enough to
have earned their literary reputation.
The truck stops at the crossroads, the DRIVER,
mustached and wearing tweeds, boots, and a muffler,
climbs down.
"Moon Shadow" ends.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
Loud bang of the back grating on the truck as it slams
down. Revealed among the sheep are two rudely-awakened
young American boys. They look exhausted. They both
carry backpacks, two American kids on a jaunt in
Europe. They are both in their late twenties.
It is very cold and they clamber out of the truck none
too happily. Pushing sheep aside they step out and
stretch.
<b> JACK GOODMAN AND DAVID KESSLER
</b>
They've been cramped for hours.
<b> TRUCK DRIVER
</b> Here, lads, East Proctor and
all about are the moors. I go
east here.
<b> JACK
</b> Yes, well thank you very much
for the ride, sir. You have
lovely sheep.
<b> TRUCK DRIVER
</b> (as he clambers back
up on his truck)
Boys, keep off the moors.
Stay on the road. Good luck
to you.
<b> DAVID
</b> Thanks again!
He drives off. LONG SHOT of the two boys as the lorry
pulls away. Surrounding them are the moors. They put
on their packs, David points to the signpost pointing
towards East Proctor.
<b> EXT. ROAD ON THE MOORS - NIGHT
</b>
As they walk, their breath visible:
<b> JACK
</b> Are you cold?
<b> DAVID
</b> Yes.
<b>
|
have
|
How many times does the word 'have' appear in the text?
| 1
|
VIVORS of the FLIGHT 180 CRASH.
We DISSOLVE between the various headlines depicting the gruesome
deaths of Tod, Terry, Ms. Lewton, Billy Hitchcock, Carter and Alex
Browning.
Also in the mix are various CRIME SCENE PHOTOS of the deaths.
Decapitated torsos, crushed, mangled bodies, the charred remains of
another and the face- down body of Alex Browning.
MAPS line the walls as well, pinpointing the locations of numerous
deaths, perhaps seeking a pattern. Charts that timeline bizarre
deaths, seating charts of downed aircraft, etc...
LATEX -GLOVED HANDS tear out the last article, apply fun- tack to its
corners and place it in the center of all the others:
<b>A REMEMBRANCE FOR THE VICTIMS OF FLIGHT 180
</b>
Friday marks one year anniversary.
<b>END TITLES.
</b>
FLASH TO BLACK as a HAND ENTERS FRAME, PULL BACK TO REVEAL:
<b>EXT. KIMBERLY'S NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY
</b>
KIMBERLY BURROUGHS, 19, puts a folded AAA map in her mouth. She opens
the back of a RED NISSAN SUV, and pla ces her duffel bag inside.
That done, she lets the map drop from her mouth, catches it in her
free hand and turns to hug her father, MR. BURROUGHS.
<b> KIMBERLY
</b> Thanks, Dad. I'll call you.
<b>
</b><b> MR. BU RROUGHS
</b> You have everything, Kimberly?
Credit card, cell phone, AAA card?
<b> KIMBERLY
</b> Relax, Dad. It's Daytona, not
Mongolia.
<b> MR. BURROUGHS
</b> (playful)
Fix -A-flat? Road flares?
Sunblock? Mace?
<b> SHAINA (O.S.)
</b> Condoms, handcuffs, lube?
Kimberly and Mr. Burroughs turn to see --
SHAINA, 19, tall leggy brunette. Tan, tight tube top revealing her
pierced navel, Kimberly's best friend. She walks up the driveway with
her bags.
<b> SHAINA
</b> Just kidding, Mr. B. Don't worry,
I'll keep an eye on her.
<b> MR. BURROUGHS
</b> (sarcastic)
Oh, that makes me feel a lot
better.
Shaina throws her bags in, shuts the back and climbs in the SUV.
Kimberly hugs her
|
hand
|
How many times does the word 'hand' appear in the text?
| 1
|
* * * * *
Erich laughed, lightly this time, and stepped out briskly toward us. He
stopped to clap the New Boy firmly on the shoulder and look him in the
face.
"So, now you get a good scar," he said.
The other didn't pull away, but he didn't look up and Erich came on. Sid
was hurrying toward the New Boy, and as he passed Erich, he wagged a
finger at him and gayly said, "You rogue." Next thing I was giving Erich
my "Man, you're home" hug and he was kissing me and cracking my ribs and
saying, "_Liebchen! Doppchen!_"--which was fine with me because I do
love him and I'm a good lover and as much a Doubleganger as he is.
We had just pulled back from each other to get a breath--his blue eyes
looked so sweet in his worn face--when there was a thud behind us. With
the snapping of the tension, Doc had fallen off his bar stool and his
top hat was over his eyes. As we turned to chuckle at him, Maud squeaked
and we saw that the Roman had walked straight up against the Void and
was marching along there steadily without gaining a foot, like it does
happen, his black uniform melting into that inside-your-head gray.
Maud and Beau rushed over to fish him back, which can be tricky. The
thin gambler was all courtly efficiency again. Sid supervised from a
distance.
"What's wrong with him?" I asked Erich.
He shrugged. "Overdue for Change Shock. And he was nearest the stun
guns. His horse almost threw him. _Mein Gott_, you should have seen
Saint Petersburg, _Liebchen_: the Nevsky Prospekt, the canals flying by
like reception carpets of blue sky, a cavalry troop in blue and gold
that blundered across our escape, fine women in furs and ostrich plumes,
a monk with a big tripod and his head under a hood--it gave me the
horrors seeing all those Zombies flashing past and staring at me in that
sick unawakened way they have, and knowing that some of them, say the
photographer, might be Snakes."
Our side in the Change War is the Spiders, the other side is the Snakes,
though all of us--Spiders and Snakes alike--are Doublegangers and Demons
too, because we're cut out of our lifelines in the cosmos. Your lifeline
is all of you from birth to death. We're Doublegangers because we can
operate both in the cosmos and outside of it, and Demons because we act
reasonably alive while doing so--which the Ghosts don't. Entertainers
and Soldiers are all Demon-Doublegangers, whichever side they're
on--though they say the Snake Places are simply ghastly. Zombies are
dead people whose lifelines lie in the so-called past.
* * * * *
"What were you doing in Saint Petersburg before the ambush?" I asked
Erich. "That is, if you can talk about it."
"Why not? We were kidnapping the infant Einstein back from the Snakes in
1883. Yes, the Snakes got him, _Liebchen_, only a few sleeps back,
endangering the West's whole victory over Russia--"
"--which gave your dear little Hitler the world on a platter for fifty
years and got me loved to death by your sterling troops in the
Liberation of Chicago--"
"--but which leads to the ultimate victory of the Spiders and the West
over the Snakes and Communism, _Liebchen_, remember that. Anyway, our
counter-snatch didn't work. The Snakes had guards posted--most unusual
and we weren't warned. The whole thing was a great mess. No wonder Bruce
lost his head--not that it excuses him."
"The New Boy?" I asked. Sid hadn't got to him and he was still standing
with hooded eyes where Erich had left him,
|
erich
|
How many times does the word 'erich' appear in the text?
| 6
|
aged
birds in the world and setting them free. Then they came to a shop that
sold cats, but the cats were in cages, and the children could not help
wishing someone would buy all the cats and put them on hearthrugs, which
are the proper places for cats. And there was the dog-shop, and that was
not a happy thing to look at either, because all the dogs were chained
or caged, and all the dogs, big and little, looked at the four children
with sad wistful eyes and wagged beseeching tails as if they were trying
to say, 'Buy me! buy me! buy me! and let me go for a walk with you; oh,
do buy me, and buy my poor brothers too! Do! do! do!' They almost said,
'Do! do! do!' plain to the ear, as they whined; all but one big Irish
terrier, and he growled when Jane patted him.
'Grrrrr,' he seemed to say, as he looked at them from the back corner
of his eye--'YOU won't buy me. Nobody will--ever--I shall die chained
up--and I don't know that I care how soon it is, either!'
I don't know that the children would have understood all this, only once
they had been in a besieged castle, so they knew how hateful it is to be
kept in when you want to get out.
Of course they could not buy any of the dogs. They did, indeed, ask the
price of the very, very smallest, and it was sixty-five pounds--but that
was because it was a Japanese toy spaniel like the Queen once had her
portrait painted with, when she was only Princess of Wales. But the
children thought, if the smallest was all that money, the biggest would
run into thousands--so they went on.
And they did not stop at any more cat or dog or bird shops, but passed
them by, and at last they came to a shop that seemed as though it only
sold creatures that did not much mind where they were--such as goldfish
and white mice, and sea-anemones and other aquarium beasts, and
lizards and toads, and hedgehogs and tortoises, and tame rabbits
and guinea-pigs. And there they stopped for a long time, and fed the
guinea-pigs with bits of bread through the cage-bars, and wondered
whether it would be possible to keep a sandy-coloured double-lop in the
basement of the house in Fitzroy Street.
'I don't suppose old Nurse would mind VERY much,' said Jane. 'Rabbits
are most awfully tame sometimes. I expect it would know her voice and
follow her all about.'
'She'd tumble over it twenty times a day,' said Cyril; 'now a snake--'
'There aren't any snakes, said Robert hastily, 'and besides, I never
could cotton to snakes somehow--I wonder why.'
'Worms are as bad,' said Anthea, 'and eels and slugs--I think it's
because we don't like things that haven't got legs.'
'Father says snakes have got legs hidden away inside of them,' said
Robert.
'Yes--and he says WE'VE got tails hidden away inside us--but it doesn't
either of it come to anything REALLY,' said Anthea. 'I hate things that
haven't any legs.'
'It's worse when they have too many,' said Jane with a shudder, 'think
of centipedes!'
They stood there on the pavement, a cause of some inconvenience to
the passersby, and thus beguiled the time with conversation. Cyril was
leaning his elbow on the top of a hutch that had seemed empty when they
had inspected the whole edifice of hutches one by one, and he was trying
to reawaken the interest of a hedgehog that had curled itself into a
ball earlier in the interview, when a small, soft voice just below his
elbow said, quietly, plainly and quite unmistakably--not in any squeak
or whine that had to be translated--but in downright common English--
'Buy me--do--please buy me!'
Cyril started as though he had been pinched, and jumped a yard away from
the hutch.
'Come back--oh, come back!' said the
|
biggest
|
How many times does the word 'biggest' appear in the text?
| 0
|
and animates hopes the sublimest."
Then made answer the landlord, with thoughts judicious and manly:
"Often the Rhine's broad stream have I with astonishment greeted,
As I have neared it again, after travelling abroad upon business.
Always majestic it seemed, and my mind and spirit exalted.
But I could never imagine its beautiful banks would so shortly
Be to a rampart transformed, to keep from our borders the Frenchman,
And its wide-spreading bed be a moat all passage to hinder.
See! thus nature protects, the stout-hearted Germans protect us,
And thus protects us the Lord, who then will he weakly despondent?
Weary already the combatants, all indications are peaceful.
Would it might be that when that festival, ardently longed for,
Shall in our church be observed, when the sacred Te Deum is rising,
Swelled by the pealing of organ and bells, and the blaring of trumpets,--
Would it might be that that day should behold my Hermann, sir pastor,
Standing, his choice now made, with his bride before thee at the altar,
Making that festal day, that through every land shall be honored,
My anniversary, too, henceforth of domestic rejoicing!
But I observe with regret, that the youth so efficient and active
Ever in household affairs, when abroad is timid and backward.
Little enjoyment he finds in going about among others;
Nay, he will even avoid young ladies' society wholly;
Shuns the enlivening dance which all young persons delight in."
Thus he spoke and listened; for now was heard in the distance
Clattering of horses' hoofs drawing near, and the roll of the wagon,
Which, with furious haste, came thundering under the gateway.
TERPSICHORE
HERMANN
Now when of comely mien the son came into the chamber,
Turned with a searching look the eyes of the preacher upon him,
And, with the gaze of the student, who easily fathoms expression,
Scrutinized well his face and form and his general bearing.
Then with a smile he spoke, and said in words of affection:
"Truly a different being thou comest! I never have seen thee
Cheerful as now, nor ever beheld I thy glances so beaming.
Joyous thou comest, and happy: 'tis plain that among the poor people
Thou hast been sharing thy gifts, and receiving their blessings upon thee."
Quietly then, and with serious words, the son made him answer:
"If I have acted as ye will commend, I know not; but I followed
That which my heart bade me do, as I shall exactly relate you.
Thou wert, mother, so long in rummaging 'mong thy old pieces,
Picking and choosing, that not until late was thy bundle together;
Then too the wine and the beer took care and time in the packing.
When I came forth through the gateway at last, and out on the high-road,
Backward the crowd of citizens streamed with women and children,
Coming to meet me; for far was already the band of the exiles.
Quicker I kept on my way, and drove with speed to the village,
Where they were meaning to rest, as I heard, and tarry till morning.
Thitherward up the new street as I hasted, a stout-timbered wagon,
Drawn by two oxen, I saw, of that region the largest and strongest;
While, with vigorous steps, a maiden was walking beside them,
And, a long staff in her hand, the two powerful creatures was guiding,
Urging them now, now holding them back; with skill did she drive them.
Soon as the maiden perceived me, she calmly drew near to the horses,
And in these words she addressed me: 'Not thus deplorable always
Has our condition been, as to-day on this journey thou seest.
I am not yet grown used to asking gifts of a stranger,
Which he will often unwillingly give, to be rid of the beggar.
But necessity drives me to speak; for here, on the straw, lies
Newly delivered of child, a rich land-owner's wife, whom I scarcely
Have in her pregnancy, safe brought off with the oxen and wagon.
Naked, now in her arms the new-born infant is lying,
And but little the help our friends will be able to furnish,
If in the neighboring
|
came
|
How many times does the word 'came' appear in the text?
| 2
|
dishevelled shoes near the heads of her children. She shrouded
herself, puffing and snorting, in a cloud of steam at the stove, and
eventually extracted a frying-pan full of potatoes that hissed.
She flourished it. "Come teh yer suppers, now," she cried with sudden
exasperation. "Hurry up, now, er I'll help yeh!"
The children scrambled hastily. With prodigious clatter they arranged
themselves at table. The babe sat with his feet dangling high from a
precarious infant chair and gorged his small stomach. Jimmie forced,
with feverish rapidity, the grease-enveloped pieces between his wounded
lips. Maggie, with side glances of fear of interruption, ate like a
small pursued tigress.
The mother sat blinking at them. She delivered reproaches, swallowed
potatoes and drank from a yellow-brown bottle. After a time her mood
changed and she wept as she carried little Tommie into another room and
laid him to sleep with his fists doubled in an old quilt of faded red
and green grandeur. Then she came and moaned by the stove. She rocked
to and fro upon a chair, shedding tears and crooning miserably to the
two children about their "poor mother" and "yer fader, damn 'is soul."
The little girl plodded between the table and the chair with a dish-pan
on it. She tottered on her small legs beneath burdens of dishes.
Jimmie sat nursing his various wounds. He cast furtive glances at his
mother. His practised eye perceived her gradually emerge from a
muddled mist of sentiment until her brain burned in drunken heat. He
sat breathless.
Maggie broke a plate.
The mother started to her feet as if propelled.
"Good Gawd," she howled. Her eyes glittered on her child with sudden
hatred. The fervent red of her face turned almost to purple. The
little boy ran to the halls, shrieking like a monk in an earthquake.
He floundered about in darkness until he found the stairs. He
stumbled, panic-stricken, to the next floor. An old woman opened a
door. A light behind her threw a flare on the urchin's quivering face.
"Eh, Gawd, child, what is it dis time? Is yer fader beatin' yer
mudder, or yer mudder beatin' yer fader?"
Chapter III
Jimmie and the old woman listened long in the hall. Above the muffled
roar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at night, the
thumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled with the sound
of varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the rattling of wheels
over cobbles, they heard the screams of the child and the roars of the
mother die away to a feeble moaning and a subdued bass muttering.
The old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could don, at
will, an expression of great virtue. She possessed a small music-box
capable of one tune, and a collection of "God bless yehs" pitched in
assorted keys of fervency. Each day she took a position upon the
stones of Fifth Avenue, where she crooked her legs under her and
crouched immovable and hideous, like an idol. She received daily a
small sum in pennies. It was contributed, for the most part, by
persons who did not make their homes in that vicinity.
Once, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the gnarled
woman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity beneath her
cloak. When she was arrested she had cursed the lady into a partial
swoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from rheumatism, had almost
kicked the stomach out of a huge policeman whose conduct upon that
occasion she referred to when she said: "The police, damn 'em."
"Eh, Jimmie, it's cursed shame," she said. "Go, now, like a dear an'
buy me a can, an' if yer mudder raises 'ell all night yehs can sleep
here."
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bless
|
How many times does the word 'bless' appear in the text?
| 0
|
."
"My good young man," said Eldridge, "you know not what you offer. While
deprived of my liberty I cannot be free from anxiety on my own account;
but that is a trifling concern; my anxious thoughts extend to one more
dear a thousand times than life: I am a poor weak old man, and must
expect in a few years to sink into silence and oblivion; but when I am
gone, who will protect that fair bud of innocence from the blasts of
adversity, or from the cruel hand of insult and dishonour."
"Oh, my father!" cried Miss Eldridge, tenderly taking his hand, "be not
anxious on that account; for daily are my prayers offered to heaven that
our lives may terminate at the same instant, and one grave receive us
both; for why should I live when deprived of my only friend."
Temple was moved even to tears. "You will both live many years," said
he, "and I hope see much happiness. Cheerly, my friend, cheerly; these
passing clouds of adversity will serve only to make the sunshine of
prosperity more pleasing. But we are losing time: you might ere this
have told me who were your creditors, what were their demands, and other
particulars necessary to your liberation."
"My story is short," said Mr. Eldridge, "but there are some particulars
which will wring my heart barely to remember; yet to one whose offers
of friendship appear so open and disinterested, I will relate every
circumstance that led to my present, painful situation. But my child,"
continued he, addressing his daughter, "let me prevail on you to take
this opportunity, while my friends are with me, to enjoy the benefit of
air and exercise."
"Go, my love; leave me now; to-morrow at your usual hour I will expect
you."
Miss Eldridge impressed on his cheek the kiss of filial affection, and
obeyed.
CHAPTER III.
UNEXPECTED MISFORTUNES.
"MY life," said Mr. Eldridge, "till within these few years was marked by
no particular circumstance deserving notice. I early embraced the life
of a sailor, and have served my King with unremitted ardour for many
years. At the age of twenty-five I married an amiable woman; one son,
and the girl who just now left us, were the fruits of our union. My
boy had genius and spirit. I straitened my little income to give him a
liberal education, but the rapid progress he made in his studies amply
compensated for the inconvenience. At the academy where he received his
education he commenced an acquaintance with a Mr. Lewis, a young man
of affluent fortune: as they grew up their intimacy ripened into
friendship, and they became almost inseparable companions.
"George chose the profession of a soldier. I had neither friends or
money to procure him a commission, and had wished him to embrace a
nautical life: but this was repugnant to his wishes, and I ceased to
urge him on the subject.
"The friendship subsisting between Lewis and my son was of such a nature
as gave him free access to our family; and so specious was his manner
that we hesitated not to state to him all our little difficulties in
regard to George's future views. He listened to us with attention, and
offered to advance any sum necessary for his first setting out.
"I embraced the offer, and gave him my note for the payment of it, but
he would not suffer me to mention any stipulated time, as he said I
might do it whenever most convenient to myself. About this time my dear
Lucy returned from school, and I soon began to imagine Lewis looked at
her with eyes of affection. I gave my child a caution to beware of him,
and to look on her mother as her friend. She was unaffectedly artless;
and when, as I suspected, Lewis made professions of love, she confided
in her parents, and assured us her heart was perfectly unbiassed in his
favour, and she would cheerfully submit to our direction.
"I took an early opportunity of questioning him concerning his
intentions towards my child: he gave an equivocal answer, and I forbade
him the house.
"The next day he sent and demanded payment of his money.
|
time
|
How many times does the word 'time' appear in the text?
| 2
|
among a portion of the gentry in
Cumberland and Westmoreland,--did not go with her. She had married
without due care. Some men said,--and many women repeated the
story,--that she had known of the existence of the former wife, when
she had married the Earl. She had run into debt, and then repudiated
her debts. She was now residing in the house of a low radical tailor,
who had assaulted the man she called her husband; and she was living
under her maiden name. Tales were told of her which were utterly
false,--as when it was said that she drank. Others were reported
which had in them some grains of truth,--as that she was violent,
stiff-necked, and vindictive. Had they said of her that it had
become her one religion to assert her daughter's right,--per fas aut
nefas,--to assert it by right or wrong; to do justice to her child
let what injustice might be done to herself or others,--then the
truth would have been spoken.
The case dragged itself on slowly, and little Anna Murray was a child
of nine years old when at last the Earl was acquitted of the criminal
charge which had been brought against him. During all this time he
had been absent. Even had there been a wish to bring him personally
into court, the law would have been powerless to reach him. But there
was no such wish. It had been found impossible to prove the former
marriage, which had taken place in Sicily;--or if not impossible, at
least no adequate proof was forthcoming. There was no real desire
that there should be such proof. The Earl's lawyers abstained, as
far as they could abstain, from taking any steps in the matter. They
spent what money was necessary, and the Attorney-General of the day
defended him. In doing so, the Attorney-General declared that he had
nothing to do with the Earl's treatment of the lady who now called
herself Mrs. Murray. He knew nothing of the circumstances of that
connection, and would not travel beyond his brief. He was there to
defend Earl Lovel on a charge of bigamy. This he did successfully,
and the Earl was acquitted. Then, in court, the counsel for the wife
declared that his client would again call herself Lady Lovel.
But it was not so easy to induce other people to call her Lady Lovel.
And now not only was she much hampered by money difficulties, but so
also was the tailor. But Thomas Thwaite never for a moment slackened
in his labours to make good the position of the woman whom he had
determined to succour; and for another and a longer period of eight
years the battle went on. It went on very slowly, as is the wont with
such battles; and very little way was made. The world, as a rule, did
not believe that she who now again called herself the Countess Lovel
was entitled to that name. The Murrays, her own people,--as far as
they were her own people,--had been taught to doubt her claim. If
she were a countess why had she thrown herself into the arms of an
old tailor? Why did she let her daughter play with the tailor's
child,--if, in truth, that daughter was the Lady Anna? Why, above
all things, was the name of the Lady Anna allowed to be mentioned,
as it was mentioned, in connection with that of Daniel Thwaite, the
tailor's son?
During these eight weary years Lady Lovel,--for so she shall be
called,--lived in a small cottage about a mile from Keswick, on the
road to Grassmere and Ambleside, which she rented from quarter to
quarter. She still obtained a certain amount of alimony, which,
however, was dribbled out to her through various sieves, and which
reached her with protestations as to the impossibility of obtaining
anything like the moderate sum which had been awarded to her. And
it came at last to be the case that she hardly knew what she was
struggling to obtain. It was, of course, her object that all the
world should acknowledge her to be the Countess Lovel, and her
daughter to be the Lady Anna. But all the world could not be made to
do this by course of law. Nor could the law make her lord come home
and live with her, even such a cat
|
lady
|
How many times does the word 'lady' appear in the text?
| 6
|
48
ââWhoâs that?ââ 52
âCheering and waving leaves and swinging out of the branches
to greet himâ 61
âJohn Dolittle was the last to crossâ 65
âHe made all the monkeys who were still well come and be
vaccinatedâ 68
ââ_ME, the King of Beasts_, to wait on a lot of dirty
monkeys?ââ 70
âThen the Grand Gorilla got upâ 76
ââLord save us!â cried the duck. âHow does it make up its
mind?ââ 85
âHe began reading the fairy-stories to himselfâ 96
âCrying bitterly and waving till the ship was out of sightâ 109
ââThey are surely the pirates of Barbaryââ 114
ââAnd you have heard that rats always leave a sinking ship?ââ 119
ââLook here, Ben Aliâââ 127
ââSh!âListen!âI do believe thereâs someone in there!ââ 136
ââYou stupid piece of warm bacon!ââ 153
ââDoctor!â he cried. âIâ�
|
that
|
How many times does the word 'that' appear in the text?
| 1
|
June 3, 2008
<b>
</b><b> 1.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> EXT. VALLEY -- DAY
</b><b>
</b> A MYSTERIOUS WARRIOR treks across the rugged landscape.
<b>
</b><b> NARRATOR (V.O.)
</b> Legend tells of a legendary warrior
whose Kung Fu skills were the stuff
of legend.
<b>
</b> The warrior, his identity hidden beneath his flowing robe and
wide-brimmed hat, gnaws on a staff of bamboo.
<b>
</b><b> NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT'D)
</b> He traveled the land in search of
worthy foes.
<b>
</b><b> CUT TO:
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> INT. BAR
</b><b>
</b> The warrior sits at a table drinking tea and gnawing on his
bamboo. The door BLASTS open. The MANCHU GANG rushes in and
surrounds him.
<b>
</b><b> GANG BOSS
</b> (to warrior)
I see you like to CHEW!
(beat)
Maybe you should chew on my FIST!!
<b>
</b> The Boss punches the table.
<b>
</b><b>
|
warrior
|
How many times does the word 'warrior' appear in the text?
| 4
|
were cleared away, and the barrister's
pipe lit, and Patty and her mother had got their sewing, he would talk by
the hour on the legality of our resistance to the King, and discuss the
march of affairs in England and the other colonies. He found me a ready
listener, and took pains to teach me clearly the right and wrong of the
situation. 'Twas his religion, even as loyalty to the King was my
grandfather's, and he did not think it wrong to spread it. He likewise
instilled into me in that way more of history than Mr. Allen had ever
taught me, using it to throw light upon this point or that. But I never
knew his true power and eloquence until I followed him to the Stadt
House.
Patty was grown a girl of fifteen then, glowing with health, and had
ample good looks of her own. 'Tis odd enough that I did not fall in
love with her when Dolly began to use me so outrageously. But a lad of
eighteen is scarce a rational creature. I went and sat before my oracle
upon the vine-covered porch under the eaves, and poured out my complaint.
She laid down her needlework and laughed.
"You silly boy," said she, "can't you see that she herself has prescribed
for you? She was right when she told you to show attention to Jenny.
And if you dangle about Miss Dolly now, you are in danger of losing her.
She knows it better than you."
I had Jenny to ride the very next day. Result: my lady smiled on me more
sweetly than ever when I went to Prince George Street, and vowed Jenny
had never looked prettier than when she went past the house. This left
my victory in such considerable doubt that I climbed the back wall
forthwith in my new top-boots.
"So you looked for her to be angry?" said Patty.
"Most certainly," said I.
"Unreasoning vanity!" she cried, for she knew how to speak plain.
"By your confession to me you have done this to please her, for she
warned you at the beginning it would please her. And now you complain
of it. I believe I know your Dorothy better than you."
And so I got but little comfort out of Patty that time.
CHAPTER IX
UNDER FALSE COLOURS
And now I come to a circumstance in my life I would rather pass over
quickly. Had I steered the straight course of my impulse I need never
have deceived that dear gentleman whom I loved and honoured above any in
this world, and with whom I had always lived and dealt openly. After my
grandfather was pronounced to be mending, I went back to Mr. Allen until
such time as we should be able to go to the country. Philip no longer
shared my studies, his hours having been changed from morning to
afternoon. I thought nothing of this, being content with the rector's
explanation that my uncle had a task for Philip in the morning, now that
Mr. Carvel was better. And I was well content to be rid of Philip's
company. But as the days passed I began to mark an absence still
stranger. I had my Horace and my Ovid still: but the two hours from
eleven to one, which he was wont to give up to history and what he was
pleased to call instruction in loyalty, were filled with other matter.
Not a word now of politics from Mr. Allen. Not even a comment from him
concerning the spirited doings of our Assembly, with which the town was
ringing. That body had met but a while before, primed to act on the
circular drawn up by Mr. Adams of Massachusetts. The Governor's message
had not been so prompt as to forestall them, and I am occupied scarce the
time in the writing of this that it took our brave members to adopt the
petition to his Majesty and to pass resolutions of support to our sister
colony of the North. This being done, and a most tart reply penned to
his Excellency, they ended that sitting and passed in procession to the
Governor's mansion to deliver it, Mr. Speaker Lloyd at their head, and a
vast concourse of cheering people at their heels. Shutters were barred
on the Tory houses we passed. And though Mr. Allen spied me in the
crowd, he never mentioned the circumstance. More than
|
your
|
How many times does the word 'your' appear in the text?
| 1
|
stairs.
Anna is the rare combination of beauty and innocence. She stands
in the chilly basement in an elegant summer dress that outlines
her slender body. Her gentle eyes move across the empty room and
come to rest on a rack of wine bottles covering one entire wall.
She walks to the bottles. Her fingertips slide over the labels.
She stops when she finds just the right one. A tiny smile as she
slides it out.
Anna turns to leave. Stops. She stares at the shadowy basement.
It's an unsettling place. She stands very still and watches her
breath form a TINY CLOUD IN THE COLD AIR. She's visibly
uncomfortable.
Anna Crowe moves for the staircase in a hurry. Each step faster
than the next. She climbs out of the basement in another burst
of LIGHT, QUICK FOOTSTEPS.
<b> WE HEAR HER HIT THE LIGHT SWITCH.
</b>
<b> THE LIGHTBULB DIES. DRIPPING BLACK DEVOURS THE ROOM.
</b>
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> INT. DINING ROOM - EVENING
</b>
Two place settings are arranged on the living room coffee table.
Take-out Chinese food sits half eaten on good china. An empty
bottle of red wine sits between boxes of Chinese food.
Anna arrives with the backup bottle and is now wearing a sweater.
She hands a collegiate rowing team sweatshirt to Malcolm.
<b> ANNA
</b> It's getting cold.
MALCOLM CROWE sits on the floor at the coffee table, his vest and
tie on the sofa behind him. A jacket and an overcoat lay on a
brirfcase next to him.
Malcolm is in his thirties with thick, wavy hair and striking,
intelligent eyes that squint from years of intense study. His
charming, easy-going smile spreads across his face. He points.
<b> MALCOLM
</b> That's one fine frame. A fine
frame it is.
Malcolm points to the HUGE FRAMED CERTIFICATE propped up on a
dining room chair. It's printed on aged parchment-type paper.
The frame is a polished mahogany.
He slips on the sweatshirt.
<b> MALCOLM
</b> How much does a fine frame like
that cost, you think?
Anna hands the backup bottle over to Malcolm.
<b> ANNA
</b> (smiling)
I've never told you... but you
sound a little like Dr. Seuss when
you're drunk.
Malcolm uncorks the wine and starts pouring in the empty glass.
<b> MALCOLM
</b> Anna, I'm serious. Serious I am,
Anna.
Anna giggles. She's clearly buzzed herself. Malcolm doesn't get
it. Anna takes a few calming sips of her wine. Her attention
slowly moves to the framed certificate.
<b> ANNA
</b> Mahogany. I'd say that cost at
least a couple hundred. Maybe
three.
<b> MALCOLM
</b> Three? We should hock it. Buy a
C.D. rack for the bedroom.
<b> ANNA
</b> Do you know how important this is?
This is big time.
(beat)
I'm going to read it for you,
doctor.
<b> MALCOLM
</b>
|
bedroom
|
How many times does the word 'bedroom' appear in the text?
| 0
|
now that we say to ourselves, if we could but once more
come across such a green and wooded resting-place, we would stay there
for the rest of our lives, would pitch our tent there, and there end our
days.
But the body cannot go back and renew its existence, and so memory has
to make its pious pilgrimage alone; back to the early days and fresh
beginnings of life it travels, like those light vessels that are borne
upward by their white sails against the current of a river. Then the
body once more pursues its journey; but the body without memory is as
the night without stars, as the lamp without its flame.... And so body
and memory go their several ways.
The body, with chance for its guide, moves towards the unknown.
Memory, that bright will-oâ-the-wisp, hovers over the land-marks that
are left behind; and memory, we may be sure, will not lose her way.
Every oasis is revisited, every association recalled, and then with a
rapid flight she returns to the body that grows ever more and more
weary, and like the humming of a bee, like the song of a bird, like the
murmur of a stream, tells the tale of all that she has seen.
And as the tired traveller listens, his eyes grow bright again, his
mouth smiles, and a light steals over his face. For Providence in
kindness, seeing that he cannot return to youth, allows youth to return
to him. And ever after he loves to repeat aloud what memory tells, him
in her soft, low voice.
And is our life, then, bounded by a circle like the earth? Do we,
unconsciously, continue to walk towards the spot from which we started?
And as we travel nearer and nearer to the grave, do we again draw
closer, ever closer, to the cradle?
II
I cannot say. But what happened to myself, that much at any rate I know.
At my first halt along the road of life, my first glance backwards, I
began by relating the tale of Bernard and his uncle Berthelin, then the
story of Ange Pitou, his fair _fiancée_, and of Aunt Angélique; after
that I told of Conscience and Mariette; and lastly of Catherine Blum and
Father Vatrin.
I am now going to tell you the story of Thibault and his wolves, and of
the Lord of Vez. And how, you will ask, did I become acquainted with the
events which I am now about to bring before you? I will tell you.
Have you read my _Mémoires_, and do you remember one, by name Mocquet,
who was a friend of my fatherâs?
If you have read them, you will have some vague recollection of this
personage. If you have not read them, you will not remember anything
about him at all.
In either case, then, it is of the first importance that I should bring
Mocquet clearly before your mindâs eye.
As far back as I can remember, that is when I was about three years of
age, we lived, my father and mother and I, in a little Château called
Les Fossés, situated on the boundary that separates the departments of
Aisne and Oise, between Haramont and Longpré. The little house in
question had doubtless been named Les Fossés on account of the deep and
broad moat, filled with water, with which it was surrounded.
I do not mention my sister, for she was at school in Paris, and we only
saw her once a year, when she was home for a monthâs holiday.
The household, apart from my father, mother and myself,
consisted--firstly: of a large black dog, called Truffe, who was a
privileged animal and made welcome wherever he appeared, more especially
as I regularly went about on his back; secondly: of a gardener, named
Pierre, who kept me amply provided with frogs and snakes, two species of
living creatures in which I was particularly interested; thirdly: of a
negro, a valet of my fatherâs, named Hippolyte, a sort of black
merry
|
once
|
How many times does the word 'once' appear in the text?
| 2
|
and a smooth sea, the sun
shining upon it, the sight was, as I thought, the most delightful that
ever I saw.
I had slept well in the night, and was now no more sea-sick, but very
cheerful, looking with wonder upon the sea that was so rough and terrible
the day before, and could be so calm and so pleasant in so little a time
after. And now, lest my good resolutions should continue, my companion,
who had enticed me away, comes to me; âWell, Bob,â says he, clapping me
upon the shoulder, âhow do you do after it? I warrant you were frighted,
werânât you, last night, when it blew but a capful of wind?â âA capful
dâyou call it?â said I; ââtwas a terrible storm.â âA storm, you fool
you,â replies he; âdo you call that a storm? why, it was nothing at all;
give us but a good ship and sea-room, and we think nothing of such a
squall of wind as that; but youâre but a fresh-water sailor, Bob. Come,
let us make a bowl of punch, and weâll forget all that; dâye see what
charming weather âtis now?â To make short this sad part of my story, we
went the way of all sailors; the punch was made and I was made half drunk
with it: and in that one nightâs wickedness I drowned all my repentance,
all my reflections upon my past conduct, all my resolutions for the
future. In a word, as the sea was returned to its smoothness of surface
and settled calmness by the abatement of that storm, so the hurry of my
thoughts being over, my fears and apprehensions of being swallowed up by
the sea being forgotten, and the current of my former desires returned, I
entirely forgot the vows and promises that I made in my distress. I
found, indeed, some intervals of reflection; and the serious thoughts
did, as it were, endeavour to return again sometimes; but I shook them
off, and roused myself from them as it were from a distemper, and
applying myself to drinking and company, soon mastered the return of
those fitsâfor so I called them; and I had in five or six days got as
complete a victory over conscience as any young fellow that resolved not
to be troubled with it could desire. But I was to have another trial for
it still; and Providence, as in such cases generally it does, resolved to
leave me entirely without excuse; for if I would not take this for a
deliverance, the next was to be such a one as the worst and most hardened
wretch among us would confess both the danger and the mercy of.
The sixth day of our being at sea we came into Yarmouth Roads; the wind
having been contrary and the weather calm, we had made but little way
since the storm. Here we were obliged to come to an anchor, and here we
lay, the wind continuing contraryâviz. at south-westâfor seven or eight
days, during which time a great many ships from Newcastle came into the
same Roads, as the common harbour where the ships might wait for a wind
for the river.
We had not, however, rid here so long but we should have tided it up the
river, but that the wind blew too fresh, and after we had lain four or
five days, blew very hard. However, the Roads being reckoned as good as
a harbour, the anchorage good, and our ground-tackle very strong, our men
were unconcerned, and not in the least apprehensive of danger, but spent
the time in rest and mirth, after the manner of the sea; but the eighth
day, in the morning, the wind increased, and we had all hands at work to
strike
|
many
|
How many times does the word 'many' appear in the text?
| 0
|
him the Office Boy." The Governor
said you were too green. And so you were.
BENTLEY. I daresay. So would you be pretty green if you were shoved
into my father's set. I picked up your silly business in a fortnight.
Youve been at it ten years; and you havnt picked it up yet.
JOHNNY. Dont talk rot, child. You know you simply make me pity you.
BENTLEY. "Romance of Business" indeed! The real romance of
Tarleton's business is the story that you understand anything about
it. You never could explain any mortal thing about it to me when I
asked you. "See what was done the last time": that was the beginning
and the end of your wisdom. Youre nothing but a turnspit.
JOHNNY. A what!
BENTLEY. A turnspit. If your father hadnt made a roasting jack for
you to turn, youd be earning twenty-four shillings a week behind a
counter.
JOHNNY. If you dont take that back and apologize for your bad
manners, I'll give you as good a hiding as ever--
BENTLEY. Help! Johnny's beating me! Oh! Murder! _[He throws
himself on the ground, uttering piercing yells]._
JOHNNY. Dont be a fool. Stop that noise, will you. I'm not going to
touch you. Sh--sh--
_Hypatia rushes in through the inner door, followed by Mrs Tarleton,
and throws herself on her knees by Bentley. Mrs Tarleton, whose knees
are stiffer, bends over him and tries to lift him. Mrs Tarleton is a
shrewd and motherly old lady who has been pretty in her time, and is
still very pleasant and likeable and unaffected. Hypatia is a typical
English girl of a sort never called typical: that is, she has an
opaque white skin, black hair, large dark eyes with black brows and
lashes, curved lips, swift glances and movements that flash out of a
waiting stillness, boundless energy and audacity held in leash._
HYPATIA. _[pouncing on Bentley with no very gentle hand]_ Bentley:
whats the matter? Dont cry like that: whats the use? Whats
happened?
MRS TARLETON. Are you ill, child? _[They get him up.]_ There, there,
pet! It's all right: dont cry _[they put him into a chair]_: there!
there! there! Johnny will go for the doctor; and he'll give you
something nice to make it well.
HYPATIA. What has happened, Johnny?
MRS TARLETON. Was it a wasp?
BENTLEY. _[impatiently]_ Wasp be dashed!
MRS TARLETON. Oh Bunny! that was a naughty word.
BENTLEY. Yes, I know: I beg your pardon. _[He rises, and extricates
himself from them]_ Thats all right. Johnny frightened me. You know
how easy it is to hurt me; and I'm too small to defend myself against
Johnny.
MRS TARLETON. Johnny: how often have I told you that you must not
bully the little ones. I thought youd outgrown all that.
HYPATIA. _[angrily]_ I do declare, mamma, that Johnny's brutality
makes it impossible to live in the house with him.
JOHNNY. _[deeply hurt]_ It's twenty-seven years, mother, since you
had that row with me for licking Robert and giving Hypatia a black eye
because she bit me. I promised you then that I'd never raise my hand
to one of them again; and Ive never broken my word. And now because
this young whelp begins to cry out before he's hurt, you treat me as
if I were a brute and a savage.
M
|
hurt
|
How many times does the word 'hurt' appear in the text?
| 2
|
><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> SECOND DRAFT
</b><b>
</b> February 18, 1982
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> FADE IN:
</b><b>
</b><b> EXT. JUNGLE - DAY
</b><b>
</b> A machete slashes INTO FRAME. An American in battered
fedora and leather jacket, accompanied by two gunbearers,
hacks his way through dense bush. We see him from the back
only. He hacks an opening, bats fly out AT CAMERA and the
bushes part, revealing huge overgrown stone letters -- the
Mayan ruin look -- that spell "AIRPLANE II."
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> EXT. GANTRY - NIGHT
</b><b>
</b> The Jupiter shuttle stands ready to fly.
<b>
</b><b> SUPER: HOUSTON, 2002
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> INT. MISSION CONTROL ROOM - STOCK FOOTAGE
</b><b>
</b> of Houston Control with appropriate jargon V.O.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> INT. TERMINAL - WIDE ANGLE STOCK SHOT
</b><b>
</b> of a crowded modern terminal.
<b>
</b><b> P.A.
</b> All lunar departures, please proceed to
concourse lounge 'B.'
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> EXT. TERMINAL - STOCK FOOTAGE - NIGHT
</b><b>
</b>
|
fedora
|
How many times does the word 'fedora' appear in the text?
| 0
|
last
burning embers before falling to ground way-off in the distance. A
BOOMING ECHO resonates across the dusty plains, before settling back
into an eerie silence.
<b>EXT. FISSURE CANYON - DAY
</b>
We're looking into a deep gorge, dark and sinister. A howling wind
whips dust into a sandstorm, reducing visibility to almost zero. About
seventy feet down there's a hole in the rock-face that just might be a
cave entrance, and near is a peculiar SHIMMERING in the air. We hear a
mechanical BEEPING and the SHIMMERING disappears, replaced by FIVE
humanoid SHAPES clinging to the sheer rock - each well over seven feet
tall. They are PREDATORS, a race of intergalactic big-game hunters on
permanent safari; their clothing and weaponry a bizarre mix of
aborigine and ultra-hi-tech. In their hands are circular metal discs;
'smart weapons' which cut into the stone and give them purchase.
<b>PREDATOR-VISION.
</b>
From their P.O.V., we see the fissure reduced to THERMAL HEAT SOURCES.
The entrance registers as a black gaping void.
<b>INT. FISSURE NEST TUNNEL
</b>
The five hunters climb inside the rim of the tunnel, out of the wind's
banshee wailing. The lead PREDATOR reaches up to his headgear, pulling
at the coupling pipes connecting it to a hidden breathing-apparatus.
He removes the helmet, clips it to his rear utility pack, and takes a
deep breath of the air. A curious speckled pattern runs across his
wide forehead, marking him
different to the others; in addition, one of the fangs of his mandibles
has been sheared away. We'll call him BROKEN TUSK, he's the leader of
the hunting party. He reaches out a hand to caress the wall of the
tunnel.
Several feet in from the rim, it changes from rock to a textured
biomechanical surface; a swirling mass of disturbing shapes. He
hurries forward in response to the GURGLING-HISS of one of his team who
has found something.
The other PREDATOR holds a telescopic spear up for scrutiny. Skewered
on the end is a shriveled FORM with eight spindly legs and a segmented
tail; it's a FACEHUGGER, the first stage of the deadly ALIEN lifeform.
BROKEN TUSK HISSES a caution to his party; they respond by pulling
spears and elaborately-shaped swords. Several shoulder-mounted plasma
cannons slide up to firing position, tracking with their owners'
helmets. Thus armed, they move cautiously ahead...taking no chances.
One helmeted PREDATOR pauses, scanning the area.
<b>PREDATOR-VISION.
</b>
He switches through a variety of different views; infra-red, ultra-
violet, enhanced motion-tracking. Nothing.
He's so pre-occupied with this task, he totally fails to notice the
skeletal ALIEN loom up behind him, emerging from the biomechanical
growth on the floor. A barbed tail skewers the PREDATOR straight
through the neck, splashing luminous blood across his chestplate. A
gargled DEATH-RATTLE issues from his throat, the band of PREDATORS
spinning around in time to see him being dragged below the ground. The
band of extraterrestrial hunters have no time to come to his aid; they
themselves are set upon by a half-dozen ALIEN WARRIORS. The carnage is
swift and terrifying, a blur of motion.
Steel blades and serrated biomechanical limbs scythe the air, alive
with the CRIES and HISSES of both adversaries. One PREDATOR is pinned
against the tunnel wall, his spear out of
|
looking
|
How many times does the word 'looking' appear in the text?
| 0
|
1
</b>
The frame is filled with the face of PETER SULLIVAN, a 27-
year-old risk assessment analyst. He has a Doctorate from MIT
and is staring intently into a large bank of computer
screens.
An elevator door opens and FOUR HUMAN RESOURCES PEOPLE come
out of the elevator carrying large file boxes. They walk down
a long glass enclosed hallway that runs the full length of
the trading floor. The scope of the floor now comes into
frame. There are more computers than can be imagined and
several large boards on the far walls that are scrolling
thousands of numbers. PETER gives a knowing glance to the guy
sitting next to him, SETH BREGMAN, a young analyst in his
early twenties.
<b> SETH
</b> Is that them?
<b> PETER
</b> (nods yes)
<b> SETH
</b> Jesus Christ.
The HUMAN RESOURCES people turn and separate into a large
glass walled conference room that runs along the floor as
almost every person on the floor watches.
SETH (cont'd)
Are they going to do it right there?
<b> PETER
</b> Yeah.
<b> SETH
</b> Fuck me.
WILL EMERSON, sitting next to them, leans back in his chair.
<b> WILL EMERSON
</b> (whispered)
Have you guys ever seen this before?
<b> SETH
</b> No.
<b> WILL EMERSON
</b> Best to just ignore it. Keep your head
down and get back to work... and don't
watch.
<b> (CONTINUED)
</b><b> 2.
</b
|
into
|
How many times does the word 'into' appear in the text?
| 2
|
</b>
<b> A PAIR OF HANDS
</b> men's hands, nicely groomed, hold a small white terry
towel spoiled by blood-red spots. The hands rinse the
towel in a copper bar sink. The stains soften but stay.
A tan jacket sleeve, spotted the same way, moves INTO
FRAM. The hands dab the wet towel at the spots, with no
more success, and throw it into the sink. It falls half
in, still dripping the stains a drop at a time to the
floor.
<b> ALL IN CLOSEUP
</b> The owner of the hands walks to a wine rack, opens a
bottle of white wine, drizzles the wine on the jacket
sleeve. The stains disappear. He hangs his jacket on a
hook and walks from
<b> THE CELLAR
</b> and up the narrow stairs. His FOOTFALLS ECHO against the
unadorned cement block walls. We see his shape, mid-
forties, powerful, his shirt pulled out. He's carrying
the open bottle by the neck.
<b> 2 INT. WINE STORE - NIGHT
</b>
Still seen from behind, the man emerges from the cellar
into a contrastingly elegant space with a wood-beamed.
ceiling, vaguely European. He walks along a narrow aisle
of wooden diamond bins. As the space widens his foot hits
something in his path. He bends to find a shoe. He
glances about nervously. There are shutters on the
storefront windows. Shoe in hand, he tightens the
shutters. We see his profile, a good-looking man.
He walks toward a brighter room at the back of the store,
the Tasting Room. Now he retrieves a pair of women's
trousers from the floor, and as he straightens up we see
his entire face, genial, venial, redeemed by his smile.
ALEX GATES. He speaks nonchalantly toward the room.
<b> ALEX
</b> Twenty people tonight. I got a
South Beach widow, a plastic surgeon --
they actually came together.
<b> (A BEAT)
</b> These people -- all they really want
is something to brag about at dinner
parties.
He swigs from the bottle of white wine, grimaces, detours
behind the counter, and spits the mouthful into the
plastic
|
shutters
|
How many times does the word 'shutters' appear in the text?
| 1
|
13 FEBRUARY 1998
</b>
"I wish that I could write you a melody so plain
That would save you dear lady from going insane"
Bob Dylan, Tombstone Blues
<b> BLACK
</b>
MUSIC UP: Slow, sad, ethereal.
Perhaps even eerie.
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
On a sea of red, filling the frame. A crimson ocean without
waves or ripples.
A thick housepainter's BRUSH dips in, revealing its paint.
The BRUSH is extracted, paint dripping like congealing blood.
FOLLOW THE BRUSH to reveal...
<b> INT. A HOUSE - NIGHT
</b>
A white wall, where the BRUSH is moved horizontally, leaving
a thick continuous stripe, until the paint thins out.
A WOMAN'S HAND plunges the BRUSH back into the paint can,
then takes up creating the stripe again, painting the wall:
until it reaches &pleated drape --
-- and doesn't stop. A window and another drape receive the
same treatment before the BRUSH is re-dipped.
<b> A PUPPY,
</b> a sad-eyed basset hound, sits on the floor watching, a bit
perplexed. This is WALTER and even he knows this is weird.
The dog looks over to...
<b> A FOUR-YEAR-OLD GIRL
</b> standing next to him, also watching. This is RACHEL. Dark
haired, in a plain dress. Her large eyes are welling on the
verge of tears.
The BRUSH is dragged across the wall, hits a wooden picture
frame, moves across a cheap oil painting of a pastoral,
forest scene, and over the other edge of the frame.
Another ANGLE takes in the red line, five feet high, parallel
to the floor, extending around a modest living room.
Painting the line is BARBARA LANG, in her thirties, yet worn,
haggard- She hasn't slept in a while.
The precision of her work, her concentration, her focus, as
|
slept
|
How many times does the word 'slept' appear in the text?
| 0
|
literary work in
which human vice or folly is
ridiculed or attacked scornfully.
B. The branch of literature that
composes such work. 2. Irony,
derision or caustic wit used to
attack or expose folly, vice or
stupidity.
<b>INT. APARTMENT - MORNING
</b>
WE are in the living quarters of PIERRE DELACROIX. The
windows overlook the Brooklyn Promenade and the majestic
lower Manhattan skyline.
<b> DELACROIX (V.O.)
</b> Bonjour, my name is Pierre Delacroix.
I'm a television writer, also a
showrunner, a creative person.
We see a tall figure move in and around the space.
<b> DELACROIX (V.O.) (CONT'D)
</b> I'm one of those people responsible
for what you view on your idiot box.
<b>CLOSE ON
</b>
Monogrammed cuff sleeve - the initials P.D.
<b> 2.
</b>
<b> DELACROIX (V.O.) (CONT'D)
</b> The problem is not enough of you
have been watching.
<b>CLOSE ON
</b>
Monogrammed shirt pocket - the initials P.D.
<b> DELACROIX (V.O.) (CONT'D)
</b> With the onslaught of the internet,
video and interactive games, nine
hundred channels to choose from and
whatnot, our valued audience has
dramatically eroded.
<b>CLOSE ON
</b>
Razor cuts a path through a white foam on a black face.
<b> DELACROIX (V.O.) (CONT'D)
</b> To put it in much more simple
terms...
Delacroix YELLS.
<b> DELACROIX (V.O.) (CONT'D)
</b> Like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
<b>CLOSE ON
</b>
The handsome face of Pierre Delacroix.
<b> DELACROIX (V.O.) (CONT'D)
</b> People tuning out by the millions.
Delacroix turns to the CAMERA and addresses US.
<b> DELACROIX (CONT'D)
</b> Which is not good.
<b>EXT. TENEMENT - LOWER EAST SIDE - MORNING
</b>
The tenement building is boarded up, condemned, bombed out,
but a home, a shelter nonetheless.
<b>INT. TENEMENT - MORNING
</b>
People to our surprise live in here. It is a commune. The
homeless, people who have been left out, forgot about,
written off, and don't matter. The fringes of society.
CHEEBA, a skinny Puerto Rican male, tries to wake a
slumbering body under a mass of old newspapers.
<b> 3.
</b>
<b> CHEEBA
</b> Yo, let's get to it. You don't
dance, we don't eat. Simple as that.
The mass begins to move.
<b> CHEEBA (CONT'D)
</b> That's right. We slow. We blow.
We snooze. We lose.
<b>INT. CNS TOWER - MORNING
</b>
MANRAY, a young African-American dread-lock male, and Che
|
cont
|
How many times does the word 'cont' appear in the text?
| 7
|
That cry which is of things most tragical,
The tragedy most poignant--sleeps and rests,
And flicks its little fingers, with closed eyes
Senses with visions of unopened leaves
This monstrous and external sphere, the world,
And what moves in it.
So she thinks of him,
And longs for his return, and as she longs
The rivers of her body run and ripple,
Refresh and quicken her. The morning's light
Flutters upon the ceiling, and she lies
And stretches drowsily in the breaking slumber
Of fluctuant emotion, calls to him
With spirit and flesh, until his very name
Seems like to form in sound, while lips are closed,
And tongue is motionless, beyond herself,
And in the middle spaces of the room
Calls back to her.
And Henry Murray caught,
In letters, which she sent him, all she felt,
Re-kindled it and sped it back to her.
Then came a lover's fancy in his brain:
He would return unlooked for--who, the god,
Inspired the fancy?--find her in what mood
She might be in his absence, where no blur
Of expectation of his coming changed
Her color, flame of spirit. And he bought
Some chablis and a cake, slipped noiselessly
Into the chamber where she lay asleep,
And had a light upon her face before
She woke and saw him.
How she cried her joy!
And put her arms around him, burned away
In one great moment from a goblet of fire,
Which over-flowed, whatever she had felt
Of shrinking or distaste, or loveless hands
At any time before, and burned it there
Till even the ashes sparkled, blew away
In incense and in light.
She rose and slipped
A robe on and her slippers; drew a stand
Between them for the chablis and the cake.
And drank and ate with him, and showed her teeth,
While laughing, shaking curls, and flinging back
Her head for rapture, and in little crows.
And thus the wine caught up the resting cells,
And flung them in the current, and their blood
Flows silently and swiftly, running deep;
And their two hearts beat like the rhythmic chimes
Of little bells of steel made blue by flame,
Because their lives are ready now, and life
Cries out to life for life to be. The fire,
Lit in the altar of their eyes, is blind
For mysteries that urge, the blood of them
In separate streams would mingle, hurried on
By energy from the heights of ancient mountains;
The God himself, and Life, the Gift of God.
And as result the hurrying microcosms
Out of their beings sweep, seek out, embrace,
Dance for the rapture of freedom, being loosed;
Unite, achieve their destiny, find the cradle
Of sleep and growth, take up the cryptic task
Of maturation and of fashioning;
Where no light is except the light of God
To light the human spirit, which emerges
From nothing that man knows; and where a face,
To be a woman's or a man's takes form:
Hands that shall gladden, lips that shall enthrall
With songs or kisses, hands and lips, perhaps,
To hurt and poison. All is with the fates,
And all beyond us.
Now the seed is sown,
The flower must grow and blossom. Something comes,
Perhaps, to whisper something in the ear
That will exert itself against the mass
That grows, prolifer
|
fire
|
How many times does the word 'fire' appear in the text?
| 1
|
November 20, 1992
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> INT. HAUNTED MANSION PARLOR - NIGHT
</b>
We move through a spooky shrouded parlor, as a storm rages
outside. THUNDER roars, and lightning flashes in the giant
windows. in the center of the room lies an oak coffin.
Suddenly the lid starts to creak open. A hand crawls past
the edge... and then the lid slams up! Famed psychic CRISWELL
pops out. Criswell, 40, peers at us intently, his gleaming
eyes framed under his striking pale blonde hair. He intones,
with absolute conviction:
<b> CRISWELL
</b> Greetings, my friend. You are
interested in the unknown, the
mysterious, the unexplainable...
that is why you are here. So now,
for the first time, we are bringing
you the full story of what
happened...
(extremely serious)
We are giving you all the evidence,
based only on the secret testimony
of the miserable souls who survived
this terrifying ordeal. The
incidents, the places, my friend, we
cannot keep this a secret any longer.
Can your hearts stand the shocking
facts of the true story of Edward D.
Wood, Junior??
<b> EXT. NIGHT SKY
</b>
Lightning CRACKS.
We drift down past the dark clouds... through the torrential
rain... and end up...
<b> OPTICAL:
</b>
<b> EXT. HOLLYWOOD - NIGHT
</b>
We've landed in Hollywood, 1952. We're outside a teeny, grungy
playhouse. The cracked marquee proclaims "'THE CASUAL
<b> COMPANY,' WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY EDWARD D. WOOD, JR."
</b>
Pacing nervously in the rain is ED WOOD, 30, our hero.
Larger-than-life charismatic, confident, Errol Flynn-style
handsome, Ed is a human magnet. He's a classically flawed
optimist: Sweet and well-intentioned, yet doomed by his demons
within.
The doors open, and Ed's pal JOHN "BUNNY" BRECKINRIDGE, 45,
hurries out. Bunny is a wealthy, theatrical fop wearing a
string
|
with
|
How many times does the word 'with' appear in the text?
| 0
|
you."
"No, no!" said Ashe. "Oh, no; not at all--not at all! No. Oh,
no--not at all--no!" And would have continued to play on the
theme indefinitely had not the girl spoken again.
"I wanted to apologize," she said, "for my abominable rudeness in
laughing at you just now. It was idiotic of me and I don't know
why I did it. I'm sorry."
Science, with a thousand triumphs to her credit, has not yet
succeeded in discovering the correct reply for a young man to
make who finds himself in the appalling position of being
apologized to by a pretty girl. If he says nothing he seems
sullen and unforgiving. If he says anything he makes a fool of
himself. Ashe, hesitating between these two courses, suddenly
caught sight of the sheet of paper over which he had been poring
so long.
"What is a wand of death?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"A wand of death?"
"I don't understand."
The delirium of the conversation was too much for Ashe. He burst
out laughing. A moment later the girl did the same. And
simultaneously embarrassment ceased to be.
"I suppose you think I'm mad?" said Ashe.
"Certainly," said the girl.
"Well, I should have been if you hadn't come in."
"Why was that?"
"I was trying to write a detective story."
"I was wondering whether you were a writer."
"Do you write?"
"Yes. Do you ever read Home Gossip?"
"Never!"
"You are quite right to speak in that thankful tone. It's a
horrid little paper--all brown-paper patterns and advice to the
lovelorn and puzzles. I do a short story for it every week, under
various names. A duke or an earl goes with each story. I loathe
it intensely."
"I am sorry for your troubles," said Ashe firmly; "but we are
wandering from the point. What is a wand of death?"
"A wand of death?"
"A wand of death."
The girl frowned reflectively.
"Why, of course; it's the sacred ebony stick stolen from the
Indian temple, which is supposed to bring death to whoever
possesses it. The hero gets hold of it, and the priests dog him
and send him threatening messages. What else could it be?"
Ashe could not restrain his admiration.
"This is genius!"
"Oh, no!"
"Absolute genius. I see it all. The hero calls in Gridley Quayle,
and that patronizing ass, by the aid of a series of wicked
coincidences, solves the mystery; and there am I, with another
month's work done."
She looked at him with interest.
"Are you the author of Gridley Quayle?"
"Don't tell me you read him!"
"I do not read him! But he is published by the same firm that
publishes Home Gossip, and I can't help seeing his cover
sometimes while I am waiting in the waiting room to see the
editress."
Ashe felt like one who meets a boyhood's chum on a desert island.
Here was a real bond between them.
"Does the Mammoth publish you, too? Why, we are comrades in
misfortune--fellow serfs! We should be friends. Shall we be
friends?"
"I should be delighted."
"Shall we shake hands, sit down, and talk about ourselves a
little?"
"But I am keeping you from your work."
"An errand of mercy."
She sat down. It is a simple act, this of sitting down; but, like
everything else, it may be an index to character. There was
something wholly satisfactory to Ashe in the manner in which this
girl did it. She neither seated herself on the extreme edge of
the easy-chair, as one braced for instant flight; nor did she
wallow in the easy-chair, as one come to stay for the week-end.
She carried herself in an unconventional situation with an
unstudied self-confidence that he could not sufficiently admire.
|
same
|
How many times does the word 'same' appear in the text?
| 1
|
he got a job of surveying to do, and now and
then a merchant got him to straighten out his books. With Scotch patience
and pluck he resolved to live down his reputation and work his way into
the legal field yet. Poor fellow, he could foresee that it was going to
take him such a weary long time to do it.
He had a rich abundance of idle time, but it never hung heavy on his
hands, for he interested himself in every new thing that was born into
the universe of ideas, and studied it, and experimented upon it at his
house. One of his pet fads was palmistry. To another one he gave no
name, neither would he explain to anybody what its purpose was, but
merely said it was an amusement. In fact, he had found that his fads
added to his reputation as a pudd'nhead; there, he was growing chary of
being too communicative about them. The fad without a name was one which
dealt with people's finger marks. He carried in his coat pocket a
shallow box with grooves in it, and in the grooves strips of glass five
inches long and three inches wide. Along the lower edge of each strip
was pasted a slip of white paper. He asked people to pass their hands
through their hair (thus collecting upon them a thin coating of the
natural oil) and then making a thumb-mark on a glass strip, following it
with the mark of the ball of each finger in succession. Under this row
of faint grease prints he would write a record on the strip of white
paper--thus:
JOHN SMITH, right hand--
and add the day of the month and the year, then take Smith's left hand on
another glass strip, and add name and date and the words "left hand." The
strips were now returned to the grooved box, and took their place among
what Wilson called his "records."
He often studied his records, examining and poring over them with
absorbing interest until far into the night; but what he found there--if
he found anything--he revealed to no one. Sometimes he copied on paper
the involved and delicate pattern left by the ball of the finger, and
then vastly enlarged it with a pantograph so that he could examine its
web of curving lines with ease and convenience.
One sweltering afternoon--it was the first day of July, 1830--he was at
work over a set of tangled account books in his workroom, which looked
westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation outside
disturbed him. It was carried on in yells, which showed that the people
engaged in it were not close together.
"Say, Roxy, how does yo' baby come on?" This from the distant voice.
"Fust-rate. How does _you_ come on, Jasper?" This yell was from close
by.
"Oh, I's middlin'; hain't got noth'n' to complain of, I's gwine to come
a-court'n you bimeby, Roxy."
"_You_ is, you black mud cat! Yah--yah--yah! I got somep'n' better to
do den 'sociat'n' wid niggers as black as you is. Is ole Miss Cooper's
Nancy done give you de mitten?" Roxy followed this sally with another
discharge of carefree laughter.
"You's jealous, Roxy, dat's what's de matter wid you, you
hussy--yah--yah--yah! Dat's de time I got you!"
"Oh, yes, _you_ got me, hain't you. 'Clah to goodness if dat conceit o'
yo'n strikes in, Jasper, it gwine to kill you sho'. If you b'longed to
me, I'd sell you down de river 'fo' you git too fur gone. Fust time I
runs acrost yo' marster, I's gwine to tell him so."
This idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties enjoying the
friendly duel and each well satisfied with his own share of the wit
exchanged--for wit they considered it.
Wilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants; he could not work
while their chatter continued. Over in the vacant lots was Jasper,
young, coal black, and of magnificent build, sitting on a wheelbar
|
that
|
How many times does the word 'that' appear in the text?
| 4
|
of the copyrighted work;
(3) the amount and substantiality of the portion used in relation to the
copyrighted work as a whole; and
(4) the effect of the use upon the potential market for or value of the
copyrighted work.
The fact that a work is unpublished shall not itself bar a finding of
fair use if such finding is made upon consideration of all the above
factors.
*2. Excerpts From House Report on Section 107*
=====================================================================
The following excerpts are reprinted from the House Report on the new
copyright law (H.R. Rep. No. 94-1476, pages 65-74). The discussion
of section 107 appears at pages 61-67 of the Senate Report (S. Rep.
No. 94-473). The text of this section of the Senate Report is not
reprinted in this booklet, but similarities and differences between
the House and Senate Reports on particular points will be noted
below.
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*a. House Report: Introductory Discussion on Section 107*
=====================================================================
The first two paragraphs in this portion of the House Report are
closely similar to the Senate Report. The remainder of the passage
differs substantially in the two Reports.**
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SECTION 107. FAIR USE
*General background of the problem*
The judicial doctrine of fair use, one of the most important and
well-established limitations on the exclusive right of copyright owners,
would be given express statutory recognition for the first time in
section 107. The claim that a defendant's acts constituted a fair use
rather than an infringement has been raised as a defense in innumerable
copyright actions over the years, and there is ample case law
recognizing the existence of the doctrine and applying it. The examples
enumerated at page 24 of the Register's 1961 Report, while by no means
exhaustive, give some idea of the sort of activities the courts might
regard as fair use under the circumstances: "quotation of excerpts in a
review or criticism for purposes of illustration or comment; quotation
of short passages in a scholarly or technical work, for illustration or
clarification of the author's observations; use in a parody of some of
the content of the work parodied; summary of an address or article, with
brief quotations, in a news report; reproduction by a library of a
portion of a work to replace part of a damaged copy; reproduction by a
teacher or student of a small part of a work to illustrate a lesson;
reproduction of a work in legislative or judicial proceedings or
reports; incidental and fortuitous reproduction, in a newsreel or
broadcast, of a work located in the scene of an event being reported."
Although the courts have considered and ruled upon the fair use doctrine
over and over again, no real definition of the concept has ever emerged.
Indeed, since the doctrine is an equitable rule of reason, no generally
applicable definition is possible, and each case raising the question
must be decided on its own facts. On the other hand, the courts have
evolved a set of criteria which, though in no case definitive or
determinative, provide some gauge for balancing the equities. These
criteria have been stated in various ways, but essentially they can all
be reduced to the four standards which have been adopted in section 107:
"(1) the purpose and character of the use, including whether such use is
of a commercial nature or is for non-profit educational purposes; (2)
the nature of the copyrighted work; (3) the amount and substantiality of
the portion used in relation to the copyrighted work as a whole; and
(4) the effect of the use upon the potential market for or value of the
copyrighted work."
These criteria are relevant in determining whether the basic doctrine of
fair use, as stated in the first sentence of section 107, applies in a
particular case: "Notwithstanding the provisions of section 106, the
fair use of a copyrighted work, including such use by reproduction in
copies or phonorecords or by any other means specified by that section,
for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching
(including multiple copies for classroom use), scholarship, or research,
is not an infringement of copyright."
The specific wording of section 107 as it now stands is the result of a
process of accretion, resulting from the long
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> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> EXT. NARITA AIRPORT - NIGHT
</b>
We hear the sound of a plane landing over black.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> INT. CHARLOTTE'S ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
The back of a GIRL in pink underwear, she leans at a big
window, looking out over Tokyo.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
Melodramatic music swells over the Girl's butt in pink sheer
underwear as she lies on the bed.
<b> TITLE CARDS OVER IMAGE.
</b>
<b> LOST IN TRANSLATION
</b>
<b> INT. CAR - NIGHT
</b>
POV from a car window - the colors and lights of Tokyo neon
at night blur by.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
In the backseat of a Presidential limousine, BOB (late-
forties), tired and depressed, leans against a little doily,
staring out the window.
P.O.V. from car window- We see buildings covered in bright
signs, a billboard of Brad Pitt selling jeans, another of
Bob in black & white,looking distinguished with a bottle of
whiskey in a Suntory ad... more signs, a huge TV with perky
Japanese pop stars singing.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> EXT. PARK HYATT - NIGHT
</b>
Bob's black Presidential (looks like a 60's diplomat's car)
pulls up at the entrance
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black
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| 2
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that I cannot
even physically be forced to it by the elective will of others.
Another may indeed force me to do something which is not my end (but
only means to the end of another), but he cannot force me to make it
my own end, and yet I can have no end except of my own making. The
latter supposition would be a contradiction- an act of freedom which
yet at the same time would not be free. But there is no
contradiction in setting before one's self an end which is also a
duty: for in this case I constrain myself, and this is quite
consistent with freedom. * But how is such an end possible? That is
now the question. For the possibility of the notion of the thing
(viz., that it is not self-contradictory) is not enough to prove the
possibility of the thing itself (the objective reality of the notion).
{INTRODUCTION ^paragraph 15}
* The less a man can be physically forced, and the more he can be
morally forced (by the mere idea of duty), so much the freer he is.
The man, for example, who is of sufficiently firm resolution and
strong mind not to give up an enjoyment which he has resolved on,
however much loss is shown as resulting therefrom, and who yet desists
from his purpose unhesitatingly, though very reluctantly, when he
finds that it would cause him to neglect an official duty or a sick
father; this man proves his freedom in the highest degree by this very
thing, that he cannot resist the voice of duty.
II. Exposition of the Notion of an End which is also a Duty
We can conceive the relation of end to duty in two ways; either
starting from the end to find the maxim of the dutiful actions; or
conversely, setting out from this to find the end which is also
duty. Jurisprudence proceeds in the former way. It is left to
everyone's free elective will what end he will choose for his
action. But its maxim is determined a priori; namely, that the freedom
of the agent must be consistent with the freedom of every other
according to a universal law.
{INTRODUCTION ^paragraph 20}
Ethics, however, proceeds in the opposite way. It cannot start
from the ends which the man may propose to himself, and hence give
directions as to the maxims he should adopt, that is, as to his
duty; for that would be to take empirical principles of maxims, and
these could not give any notion of duty; since this, the categorical
ought, has its root in pure reason alone. Indeed, if the maxims were
to be adopted in accordance with those ends (which are all selfish),
we could not properly speak of the notion of duty at all. Hence in
ethics the notion of duty must lead to ends, and must on moral
principles give the foundation of maxims with respect to the ends
which we ought to propose to ourselves.
Setting aside the question what sort of end that is which is in
itself a duty, and how such an end is possible, it is here only
necessary to show that a duty of this kind is called a duty of virtue,
and why it is so called.
To every duty corresponds a right of action (facultas moralis
generatim), but all duties do not imply a corresponding right
(facultas juridica) of another to compel anyone, but only the
duties called legal duties. Similarly to all ethical obligation
corresponds the notion of virtue, but it does not follow that all
ethical duties are duties of virtue. Those, in fact, are not so
which do not concern so much a certain end (matter, object of the
elective will), but merely that which is formal in the moral
determination of the will (e.g., that the dutiful action must also
be done from duty). It is only an end which is also duty that can be
called a duty
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elective
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are the facts? Thirteen years ago I fell in love with a handsome
public singer, and married her. My father was angry with me; and I had
to go and live with her abroad. It didn't matter, abroad. My father
forgave me on his death-bed, and I had to bring her home again. It does
matter, at home. I find myself, with a great career opening before me,
tied to a woman whose relations are (as you well know) the lowest of
the low. A woman without the slightest distinction of manner, or the
slightest aspiration beyond her nursery and her kitchen, her piano
and her books. Is _that_ a wife who can help me to make my place in
society?--who can smooth my way through social obstacles and political
obstacles, to the House of Lords? By Jupiter! if ever there was a woman
to be 'buried' (as you call it), that woman is my wife. And, what's
more, if you want the truth, it's because I _can't_ bury her here that
I'm going to leave this house. She has got a cursed knack of making
acquaintances wherever she goes. She'll have a circle of friends
about her if I leave her in this neighborhood much longer. Friends
who remember her as the famous opera-singer. Friends who will see her
swindling scoundrel of a father (when my back is turned) coming drunk to
the door to borrow money of her! I tell you, my marriage has wrecked
my prospects. It's no use talking to me of my wife's virtues. She is a
millstone round my neck, with all her virtues. If I had not been a born
idiot I should have waited, and married a woman who would have been of
some use to me; a woman with high connections--"
Mr. Kendrew touched his host's arm, and suddenly interrupted him.
"To come to the point," he said--"a woman like Lady Jane Parnell."
Mr. Vanborough started. His eyes fell, for the first time, before the
eyes of his friend.
"What do you know about Lady Jane?" he asked.
"Nothing. I don't move in Lady Jane's world--but I do go sometimes to
the opera. I saw you with her last night in her box; and I heard what
was said in the stalls near me. You were openly spoken of as the favored
man who was singled out from the rest by Lady Jane. Imagine what would
happen if your wife heard that! You are wrong, Vanborough--you are in
every way wrong. You alarm, you distress, you disappoint me. I never
sought this explanation--but now it has come, I won't shrink from it.
Reconsider your conduct; reconsider what you have said to me--or you
count me no longer among your friends. No! I want no farther talk about
it now. We are both getting hot--we may end in saying what had better
have been left unsaid. Once more, let us change the subject. You wrote
me word that you wanted me here to-day, because you needed my advice on
a matter of some importance. What is it?"
Silence followed that question. Mr. Vanborough's face betrayed signs of
embarrassment. He poured himself out another glass of wine, and drank it
at a draught before he replied.
"It's not so easy to tell you what I want," he said, "after the tone you
have taken with me about my wife."
Mr. Kendrew looked surprised.
"Is Mrs. Vanborough concerned in the matter?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Does she know about it?"
"No."
"Have you kept the thing a secret out of regard for _her?_"
"Yes."
"Have I any right to advise on it?"
"You have the right of an old friend."
"Then, why not tell me frankly what it is?"
There was another moment of embarrassment on Mr. Vanborough's part.
"It will come better," he answered, "from a third person, whom I expect
here every minute. He is in possession of all the facts--and he is
better able to state them than I am."
"Who is the person?"
"My friend, Delamayn."
"Your lawyer?"
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ES THEATER - NIGHT
</b>
A familiar beam of light shines down. The beam of light
descends onto a stage. Lightning flashes to reveal Prince
Charming riding his valiant steed Chauncey across the open
plains. The wind blows back his golden mane.
<b> PRINCE CHARMING
</b> Onward Chauncey, to the highest
room of the tallest tower! Where
my princess awaits rescue from her
handsome Prince Charming.
Lightning cracks. Thunder booms. Charming straddles a
wooden hobby horse and gallops in place. A stage hand uses a
bellow to blow air into Prince Charming's face. Another
stage hand turns a crank that creates the moving background.
In the orchestra, a man uses coconuts to create the sound
effects of a galloping horse. Two more stage hands back
stage create the cheap sound effects of thunder and
lightning. A crudely constructed castle tower sits in front
of a cheaply painted backdrop.
The Fairytale Creatures are sitting at a table in the
audience.
<b> GINGERBREAD MAN
</b> This is worse than Love Letters! I
hate dinner theatre.
<b> PINOCCHIO
</b> Me too.
Pinocchio's nose grows as he is caught in the lie.
Prince Charming rides to the base of the tower.
<b> PRINCE CHARMING
</b> Whoa there, Chauncey!
He dismounts and sets his hobby horse on the ground. He
strikes a dramatic pose.
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prince
|
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| 5
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bottles of vodka and a
small disposable camera on Oleg's tray table. The passport
is set down. Oleg picks it up. We hear Emil's voice in
CZECH. The scene is subtitled in ENGLISH.
<b> EMIL (V.O.)
</b> Just do what I do. Say the same thing I
say. Don't open your mouth.
<b> OLEG (V.O.)
</b> Okay.
<b> INT. PASSPORT CONTROL - KENNEDY AIRPORT - DAY
</b>
CAMERA DOLLIES down a long line of passengers. They are
split into two lines - one for Americans, the other for
visitors. CAMERA finally arrives at EMIL SLOVAK. An
unshaven Czech in his mid-30's. Tall, scraggly beard.
Piercing blue eyes. He's dressed in an outdated suit. His
eyes are alert, cunning and smart.
OLEG RAZGUL, stands in line behind Emil. Oleg is big. Not
tall - but wide. A wrestler's body. Emil looks at Oleg.
(The following is in CZECH and subtitled in ENGLISH.)
<b> EMIL
</b> Don't fool around.
<b> OLEG
</b> Okay.
Oleg holds up his disposable camera - at arms length - to
take a picture of himself.
<b> EMIL
</b> Did you hear what I said?
<b> OLEG
</b> I want to document my trip to America.
<b> IMMIGRATION OFFICER
</b> Next.
(Emil steps up)
Could I see your documents, please?
<b> EMIL
</b> Yes sir.
He hands the passport to the officer who runs it through an
image swipe. Emil glances furtively back to Oleg.
<b> IMMIGRATION OFFICER
</b> What is your intended purpose of your
visit to the United States?
<b> EMIL
</b> Two weeks holiday.
<b> IMMIGRATION OFFICER
</b> How much money are you carrying with
you?
<b> EMIL
</b> I have five-hundred dollars.
<b> IMMIGRATION OFFICER
</b> Can you show me? Sir, no cameras in the
FIS area!
Oleg was about to take a picture of Emil and the Immigration
Officer. Oleg puts the camera away. Smiles sheepishly.
<b> IMMIGRATION OFFICER (CONT'D)
</b> (to Emil)
Is he with you? Are you travelling
together?
<b> EMIL
</b> Yes.
<b> IMMIGRATION OFFICER
</b> Please join us.
(to Oleg)
Come on forward.
<b> EMIL
</b> Is there a problem?
<b> IMMIGRATION OFFICER
</b> No, you're travelling together. I want
to talk to you together. Hi, how are
you? Can I take a look at your
documents?
(takes Oleg's passport)
Are you related?
<b> OLEG
</b> Yes...he's my friend.
<b> IMMIGRATION OFFIC
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glances
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| 0
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to have that thing hanging up there in the sky without
that kind of talk." He glanced up for a moment. "It gives you the
willies. Sometimes I wonder, myself, if Granny isn't half-right."
There was a stillness in the street as the people slowly dispersed ahead
of the Sheriff. Voices were low, and the banter was gone. The yellow
light from the sky cast weird, bobbing shadows on the pavement and
against the buildings.
"Shall we go?" Maria asked. "This is giving me--what do you say?--the
creeps."
"It's crazy!" Ken exclaimed with a burst of feeling. "It shows what
ignorance of something new and strange can do. One feebleminded, old
woman can infect a whole crowd with her crazy superstitions, just
because they don't know any more about this thing than she does!"
"It's more than that," said Maria quietly. "It's the feeling that people
have always had about the world they find themselves in. It doesn't
matter how much you know about the ocean and the winds and the tides,
there is always a feeling of wonder and fear when you stand on the shore
and watch enormous waves pounding the rocks.
"Even if you know what makes the thunder and the lightning, you can't
watch a great storm without feeling very small and puny."
"Of course not," Ken said. "Astronomers feel all that when they look a
couple of billion light-years into space. Physicists know it when they
discover a new particle of matter. But _they_ don't go around muttering
about omens and signs. You can feel the strength of natural forces
without being scared to death.
"Maybe that's what marks the only real difference between witches and
scientists, after all! The first scientist was the guy who saw fire come
down from the sky and decided that was the answer to some of his
problems. The witch doctor was too scared of both the problem and the
answer to believe the problem could ever have a solution. So he
manufactured delusions to make himself and others think the problem
would just quietly go away. There are a lot of witch doctors still
operating and they're not all as easy to recognize as Granny Wicks!"
They reached Ken's car, and he held the door open for Maria. As he
climbed in his own side he said, "How about coming over to my place and
having a look at the comet through my telescope? You'll see something
really awe-inspiring then."
"I'd love to. Right now?"
"Sure." Ken started the car and swung away from the curb, keeping a
careful eye on the road, watching for any others like Dad Martin.
"Sometimes I think there will be a great many things I'll miss when we
go back to Sweden," Maria said thoughtfully, as she settled back in the
seat, enjoying the smooth, powerful ride of Ken's souped-up car.
Ken shot a quick glance at her. He felt a sudden sense of loss, as if he
had not realized before that their acquaintance was strictly temporary.
"I guess a lot of people here will miss the Larsens, too," he said
quietly. "What will you miss most of all?"
"The bigness of everything," said Maria. "The hundreds and hundreds of
miles of open country. The schoolboys with cars to cover the distance.
At home, a grown man is fortunate to have one. Papa had a very hard time
owning one."
"Why don't you persuade him to stay here? Mayfield's a darn good place
to live."
"I've tried already, but he says that when a man is grown he has too
many things to hold him to the place he's always known. He has promised,
however, to let me come back if I want to, after I finish the university
at home."
"That would be nice." Ken turned away, keeping his eyes intently on the
road. There was nothing else he could say.
He drove slowly up the long grade of College Avenue. His family lived in
an older house a block below the brow of College Hill. It gave a
pleasant view of the entire expanse of the valley in which Mayfield was
situated. The houses of the town ranged themselves in neat, orderly rows
below, and spread out on the other side of the
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en
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> ON BARTON FINK
</b>
He is a bespectacled man in his thirties, hale but somewhat
bookish. He stands, tuxedoed, in the wings of a theater,
looking out at the stage, listening intently to end of a
performance.
In the shadows behind him an old stagehand leans against a
flat, expressionlessly smoking a cigarette, one hand on a
thick rope that hangs from the ceiling.
The voices of the performing actors echo in from the offscreen
stage:
<b> ACTOR
</b> I'm blowin' out of here, blowin' for
good. I'm kissin' it all goodbye,
these four stinkin' walls, the six
flights up, the el that roars by at
three A.M. like a castiron wind.
Kiss 'em goodbye for me, Maury!
I'll miss 'em like hell I will!
<b> ACTRESS
</b> Dreaming again!
<b> ACTOR
</b> Not this time, Lil! I'm awake now,
awake for the first time in years.
Uncle Dave said it: Daylight is a
dream if you've lived with your eyes
closed. Well my eyes are open now! I
see that choir, and I know they're
dressed in rags! But we're part of
that choir, both of us yeah, and
you, Maury, and Uncle Dave too!
<b> MAURY
</b> The sun's coming up, kid. They'll be
hawking the fish down on Fulton
Street.
<b> ACTOR
</b> Let 'em hawk. Let 'em sing their
hearts out.
<b> MAURY
</b> That's it, kid. Take that ruined
choir. Make it sing!
<b> ACTOR
</b> So long, Maury.
<b> MAURY
</b> So long.
We hear a door open and close, then approaching footsteps. A
tall, dark actor in a used tweed suit and carrying a beat-up
valise passes in front of Barton: From offscreen stage:
<b> MAURY
</b> We'll hear from that kid. And I don't
mean a postcard.
The actor sets the valise down and then stands waiting int
he shadows behind Barton.
An older man in work clothes not wardrobe passes in front
of Barton from the other direction, pauses at the edge of
the stage and cups his hands to his mouth.
<b> OLDER MAN
</b><b> FISH! FRESH FISH!
</b>
As the man walks back off the screen:
<b> LILY
</b> Let's spit on our hands and get to
work. It's late, Maury.
<b> MAURY
</b> Not any more Lil...
Barton mouths the last line in sync with the offscreen actor:
<b> MAURY
</b> ...It's early.
With this the stagehand behind Barton furiously pulls the
rope hand-over-hand and we hear thunderous applause and shouts
of "Bravo!"
As the stagehand finishes bringing the curtain down, somewhat
muting the applause, the backstage actor trots out of frame
toward the stage.
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actor
|
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| 7
|
as a recruit, the novelty of it all, the lively bustle of the
metropolis, left him little time for dreaming and only now and then, as
he lay in the calm dawn on his camp bed, a great longing came over him;
the homely mill gleamed through the darkness like a lost Paradise and
the clatter of the wheels sounded in his ears like heavenly music. But
as soon as he heard the trumpet call, the vision passed away.
Martin fared worse at the mill, where he was now quite alone, for he
could not reckon as companions the millhands, or old David, an
inheritance from his father. Friends he had never had either in the
village or elsewhere. Johannes sufficed him and took their place
entirely. He slunk about brooding in silence, his mind ever gloomier,
his thoughts ever darkened, and at last melancholy took such hold of
him that the vision of his victim began to haunt him. He was sensible
enough to know that he could not go on living like this, and forcibly
sought to distract his thoughts--went on Sundays to the village dance
and visited the neighboring hamlets under pretense of trade interests.
But as for the result of all this--well, one fine day at the
commencement of his second year of service, Johannes got a letter from
his brother. It ran as follows:
"My Dear Boy:
"I shall have to write it some time, even though you will be angry with
me. I could not bear my loneliness any longer and have made up my mind
to enter into the matrimonial state. Her name is Gertrude Berling, and
she is the daughter of a wind-miller in Lehnort, two miles from here.
She is very young and I love her very much. The wedding is to be in six
weeks. If you can, get leave of absence for it.
"Dear brother, I beg of you, do not be vexed with me. You know
you will always have a home at the mill whether there is a mistress
there or not. Our fatherly inheritance belongs to us both, in any
case. She sends you her kind regards. You once met each other at a
shooting-match, and she liked you very much, but you took no notice of
her, and she sends you word she was immensely offended with you.
"Farewell,
"Your faithful brother,
"Martin."
Johannes was a very spoiled creature. Martin's engagement appeared to
him as high treason against their brotherly love. He felt as if his
brother had deceived him and meanly deprived him of his due rights.
Henceforth a stranger was to rule where hitherto he alone had been
king, and his position at the mill was to depend on her favor and good
will. Even the friendly message from the wind-miller's daughter did not
calm or appease him. When the day of the wedding came, he took no
leave, but only sent his love and good wishes by his old schoolfellow
Franz Maas, who was just left off from military service.
Six months later he himself was at liberty.
How now, Johannes? We are so obstinate that on no account will we go
home, and prefer to seek our fortune in foreign parts; we roam about,
now to right, now to left, up hill and down hill and rub off our horns,
and when, four weeks later, we come to the conclusion that in spite of
the wind-miller's daughter there is no place in the world like the
Rockhammer mill, we went our way homewards most cheerfully.
One sunny day in May Johannes arrived in Marienfeld.
Franz Mass, who had set up the autumn before as a worthy baker, was
standing, with his legs apart, in front of his shop, looking up
contentedly at the tin "Bretzel" swinging over his door in the gentle
noon-day breeze, when he saw an Uhlan come swaggering down the village
street with his cap cocked to one side and clinking his spurs. His
brave ex-soldier's heart beat quicker under
|
left
|
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| 2
|
Some one remarked that it
reminded him of nothing so much as the native camp at Earl's Court on a
fine August evening, and that indeed was the effect.
After a little the stillness was broken by a sound which we could not
conceal from ourselves was 'the distant rattle of musketry'; somewhere a
gun fired startlingly; and now as we went each man felt vaguely that at
any minute we might be plunged into the thick of a battle, laden as we
were, and I think each man braced himself for a desperate struggle. Such
is the effect of marching in the dark to an unknown destination. Soon we
were halted in a piece of apparently waste land circled by trees, and
ordered to dig ourselves a habitation at once, for 'in the morning' it
was whispered 'the Turks search all this ground.' Everything was said in
a kind of hoarse, mysterious whisper, presumably to conceal our
observations from the ears of the Turks five miles away. But then we did
not know they were five miles away; we had no idea where they were or
where we were ourselves. Men glanced furtively at the North Star for
guidance, and were pained to find that, contrary to their military
teaching, it told them nothing. Even the digging was carried on a little
stealthily till it was discovered that the Turks were not behind those
trees. The digging was a comfort to the men, who, being pitmen, were now
in their element; and the officers found solace in whispering to each
other that magical communication about the prospective 'searching'; it
was the first technical word they had used 'in the field,' and they were
secretly proud to know what it meant.
In a little the dawn began, and the grey trees took shape; and the sun
came up out of Asia, and we saw at last the little sugar-loaf peak of
Achi Baba, absurdly pink and diminutive in the distance. A man's first
frontal impression of that great rampart, with the outlying slopes
masking the summit, was that it was disappointingly small; but when he
had lived under and upon it for a while, day by day, it seemed to grow
in menace and in bulk, and ultimately became a hideous, overpowering
monster, pervading all his life; so that it worked upon men's nerves,
and almost everywhere in the Peninsula they were painfully conscious
that every movement they made could be watched from somewhere on that
massive hill.
But now the kitchens had come, and there was breakfast and viscous,
milkless tea. We discovered that all around our seeming solitude the
earth had been peopled with sleepers, who now emerged from their holes;
there was a stir of washing and cooking and singing, and the smoke went
up from the wood fires in the clear, cool air. D Company officers made
their camp under an olive-tree, with a view over the blue water to
Samothrace and Imbros, and now in the early cool, before the sun had
gathered his noonday malignity, it was very pleasant. At seven o'clock
the 'searching' began. A mile away, on the northern cliffs, the first
shell burst, stampeding a number of horses. The long-drawn warning
scream and the final crash gave all the expectant battalion a faintly
pleasurable thrill, and as each shell came a little nearer the sensation
remained. No one was afraid; without the knowledge of experience no one
could be seriously afraid on this cool, sunny morning in the grove of
olive-trees. Those chill hours in the sweeper had been much more
alarming. The common sensation was: 'At last I am really under fire;
to-day I shall write home and tell them about it.' And then, when it
seemed that the line on which the shells were falling must, if
continued, pass through the middle of our camp, the firing mysteriously
ceased.
Harry, I know, was disappointed; personally, I was pleased.
* * * * *
I learned more about Harry that afternoon. He had been much exhausted by
the long night, but was now refreshed and filled with an almost childish
enthusiasm by the pictorial attractions of the place. For this
enthusiastic
|
their
|
How many times does the word 'their' appear in the text?
| 3
|
happened...
<b> OVER BLACK
</b>
We hear the roar of a V8 engine, piped out through some
throaty, fucked up muffler, as
<b> EXT. HIGHWAY - DAY
</b>
An '89 Mustang bursts like a shot over a rise in the highway.
It's got a rusted two-tone paint job, Maryland plates, and
bald tires that scream as it peels off an exit and into the
<b> EXT. SUBURBS - DAY
</b>
The car fast approaches a stop sign, dangerously blows through
the intersection.
<b> INT. MUSTANG - DAY - MOVING
</b>
We don't see the DRIVER, only the redlining RPMs, Vans slip-
ons working the pedals, wristwatch being checked. The wheel
cranks right as the car turns onto a -
One way street. A minivan flies right at us. The Mustang
hops up onto the curb to avoid it, clips a trash can and -
Garbage explodes like confetti. The wipers engage, brushing
the trash aside. The car whips another turn and
<b> EXT. SUBURBS - DAY
</b>
The Mustang fishtails around a corner and skids away.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> TIRES SCREECH
</b>
Brake pads smoke. The Mustang stops outside
<b> EXT. HOUSE - DAY
</b
|
muffler
|
How many times does the word 'muffler' appear in the text?
| 0
|
he has
on the one side a singular sense of the familiar, salient, importunate
facts of life, on the other they reproduce themselves in his mind in a
delightfully qualifying medium. It is this medium that the fond observer
must especially envy Mr. Abbey, and that a literary observer will envy
him most of all.
Such a hapless personage, who may have spent hours in trying to produce
something of the same result by sadly different means, will measure
the difference between the roundabout, faint descriptive tokens of
respectable prose and the immediate projection of the figure by the
pencil. A charming story-teller indeed he would be who should write as
Mr. Abbey draws. However, what is style for one art is style for other,
so blessed is the fraternity that binds them together, and the worker
in words may take a lesson from the picture-maker of "She Stoops to
Conquer." It is true that what the verbal artist would like to do
would be to find out the secret of the pictorial, to drink at the same
fountain. Mr. Abbey is essentially one of those who would tell us if he
could, and conduct us to the magic spring; but here he is in the nature
of the case helpless, for the happy _ambiente_ as the Italians call it,
in which his creations move is exactly the thing, as I take it, that
he can least give an account of. It is a matter of genius and
imagination--one of those things that a man determines for himself as
little as he determines the color of his eyes. How, for instance, can
Mr. Abbey explain the manner in which he directly _observes_ figures,
scenes, places, that exist only in the fairy-land of his fancy? For the
peculiar sign of his talent is surely this observation in the remote. It
brings the remote near to us, but such a complicated journey as it must
first have had to make! Remote in time (in differing degrees), remote
in place, remote in feeling, in habit, and in their ambient air, are the
images that spring from his pencil, and yet all so vividly, so minutely,
so consistently seen! Where does he see them, where does he find them,
how does he catch them, and in what language does he delightfully
converse with them? In what mystic recesses of space does the revelation
descend upon him?
The questions flow from the beguiled but puzzled admirer, and their
tenor sufficiently expresses the claim I make for the admirable artist
when I say that his truth is interfused with poetry. He spurns the
literal and yet superabounds in the characteristic, and if he makes
the strange familiar he makes the familiar just strange enough to be
distinguished. Everything is so human, so humorous and so caught in the
act, so buttoned and petticoated and gartered, that it might be round
the corner; and so it is--but the corner is the corner of another world.
In that other world Mr. Abbey went forth to dwell in extreme youth, as I
need scarcely be at pains to remind those who have followed him in
Harper. It is not important here to give a catalogue of his
contributions to that journal: turn to the back volumes and you will
meet him at every step. Every one remembers his young, tentative,
prelusive illustrations to Herrick, in which there are the prettiest
glimpses, guesses and foreknowledge of the effects he was to make
completely his own. The Herrick was done mainly, if I mistake not,
before he had been to England, and it remains, in the light of this
fact, a singularly touching as well as a singularly promising
performance. The eye of sense in such a case had to be to a rare extent
the mind's eye, and this convertibility of the two organs has persisted.
From the first and always that other world and that qualifying medium
in which I have said that the human spectacle goes on for Mr. Abbey have
been a county of old England which is not to be found in any geography,
though it borders, as I have hinted, on the Worcestershire Broadway. Few
artistic phenomena are more curious than the congenital acquaintance of
this perverse young Philadelphian with that mysterious locality. It is
there that he finds them all--the nooks, the corners, the people, the
clothes, the arbors and gardens and
|
determines
|
How many times does the word 'determines' appear in the text?
| 1
|
, if she
could help it.
"I'm so poorly, mamma says I need n't go to school regularly, while you
are here, only two or three times a week, just to keep up my music and
French. You can go too, if you like; papa said so. Do, it's such fun!"
cried Fanny, quite surprising her friend by this unexpected fondness for
school.
"I should be afraid, if all the girls dress as finely as you do, and
know as much," said Polly, beginning to feel shy at the thought.
"La, child! you need n't mind that. I'll take care of you, and fix you
up, so you won't look odd."
"Am I odd?" asked Polly, struck by the word and hoping it did n't mean
anything very bad.
"You are a dear, and ever so much prettier than you were last summer,
only you've been brought up differently from us; so your ways ain't
like ours, you see," began Fanny, finding it rather hard to explain.
"How different?" asked Polly again, for she liked to understand things.
"Well, you dress like a little girl, for one thing."
"I am a little girl; so why should n't I?" and Polly looked at her
simple blue merino frock, stout boots, and short hair, with a puzzled
air.
"You are fourteen; and we consider ourselves young ladies at that age,"
continued Fanny, surveying, with complacency, the pile of hair on the
top of her head, with a fringe of fuzz round her forehead, and a wavy
lock streaming down her back; likewise, her scarlet-and-black suit, with
its big sash, little pannier, bright buttons, points, rosettes, and,
heaven knows what. There was a locket on her neck, ear-rings tinkling
in her ears, watch and chain at her belt, and several rings on a pair of
hands that would have been improved by soap and water.
Polly's eye went from one little figure to the other, and she thought
that Fanny looked the oddest of the two; for Polly lived in a quiet
country town, and knew very little of city fashions. She was rather
impressed by the elegance about her, never having seen Fanny's home
before, as they got acquainted while Fanny paid a visit to a friend who
lived near Polly. But she did n't let the contrast between herself and
Fan trouble her; for in a minute she laughed and said, contentedly, "My
mother likes me to dress simply, and I don't mind. I should n't know
what to do rigged up as you are. Don't you ever forget to lift your sash
and fix those puffy things when you sit down?"
Before Fanny could answer, a scream from below made both listen. "It
's only Maud; she fusses all day long," began Fanny; and the words were
hardly out of her mouth, when the door was thrown open, and a little
girl, of six or seven, came roaring in. She stopped at sight of Polly,
stared a minute, then took up her roar just where she left it, and cast
herself into Fanny's lap, exclaiming wrathfully, "Tom's laughing at me!
Make him stop!"
"What did you do to set him going? Don't scream so, you'll frighten
Polly!" and Fan gave the cherub a shake, which produced an explanation.
"I only said we had cold cweam at the party, last night, and he
laughed!"
"Ice-cream, child!" and Fanny followed Tom's reprehensible example.
"I don't care! it was cold; and I warmed mine at the wegister, and then
it was nice; only, Willy Bliss spilt it on my new Gabwielle!" and Maud
wailed again over her accumulated woes.
"Do go to Katy! You're as cross as a little bear to-day!" said Fanny,
pushing her away.
"Katy don't amoose me; and I must be amoosed,'cause I'm fwactious;
mamma said I was!" sobbed Maud, evidently laboring under the delusion
that fractious
|
girl
|
How many times does the word 'girl' appear in the text?
| 2
|
1
</b>
The humming stillness of an American suburb on a summer's
day: nannies push strollers, joggers jog, mailmen deliver,
dogs are walked, kids shoot hoop in wide open driveways.
On a quiet, tree-lined street we pick up two young athletic-
looking boys riding bikes. LASER ALLGOOD (15) and his
friend, CLAY (15).
Like bats out of hell they pass block after block of
charming, evenly spaced houses until they round a corner and
drop their bikes in front of a large ranch house.
<b> INT. CLAY'S HOUSE - MOMENTS LATER
</b><b>2 2
</b> They walk inside. We HEAR a baseball game on TV in another
room.
<b> INT. CLAY'S, BATHROOM - LATER
</b><b>3 3
</b>
Clay pounds on blue pills with a hammer, reducing them to
powder. Laser watches.
<b> LASER
</b> I don't know, dude.
Clay cuts the powder into lines with a school ID card.
<b> CLAY
</b> B minus in geometry, yo! This
shits the bomb!
Clay rolls up a dollar bill and takes a snort. Then hands
the rolled up bill to Laser.
<b> CLAY (CONT'D)
</b> Add it up, son.
Laser takes the bill, bends over and snorts a line.
<b> INT. ALLGOOD HOUSE - GIRL'S BEDROOM - DAY
</b><b>4 4
</b> Part Oxford reading room, part teenage girl's lair. Leaning
against the bed we see JONI ALLGOOD (18). It's her room.
She pours over a game of Scrabble.
Sitting next to Joni is her best girl friend, SASHA, (18).
Sasha's checking out Joni's FACEBOOK PAGE.
<b> 2.
</b>
Joni's best guy friend, JAI (18) sits across from her,
calculating his next Scrabble move.
<b> SASHA
|
inside
|
How many times does the word 'inside' appear in the text?
| 0
|
MUSIC UP:
</b> A simple GAME SHOW SET -- one long desk-that houses four
"CELEBRITY PANELISTS," a small pulpit with attached microphone
for the host, BUD COLLYER, who walks through the curtain to
the delight of the audience. Bud bows and waves to the
celebrities -- ORSON BEAN, KITTY CARLISLE, TOM POSTON, and
<b> PEGGY CASS.
</b>
<b> BUD COLLYER
</b> Hello, panel, and welcome everyone
to another exciting day on "To Tell
The Truth." Let's get the show
started.
<b> THE CURTAIN STARTS TO RISE
</b> BRIGHT LIGHTS SHINE on the faces of THREE MEN who walk toward
center stage. All thre n wear identical AIRLINE PILOT
UNIFORMS, each with m; c ng blue blazers and caps.
(cont' d)
Gentleman, please state
your names.
<b> PILOT #1
</b> My name is Frank Abagnale Jr.
THE PILOT IN THE MIDDLE steps forward.
<b> PILOT #2
</b> My name is Frank Abagnale Jr.
THE THIRD PILOT does the same.
<b> PILOT #3
</b> My name is Frank Abagnale Jr.
Bud smiles, grabs a piece of paper.
<b> BUD COLLYER
</b> Panel, listen to this one.
(he starts to read)
My name is Frank Abagnale Jr, and
some people consider me the worlds
greatest imposter.
<b> (CONTINUED)
</b> Debbie Zane -
<b>
</b>
<b>
</b>
<b>
</b>
<b>
</b>
<b> 2.
</b>
<b>
|
name
|
How many times does the word 'name' appear in the text?
| 3
|
, although with hesitation, that much of
the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced to a
more natural and far more palpable origin--to the severe and
long-continued illness--indeed to the evidently approaching
dissolution--of a tenderly beloved sister--his sole companion for
long years--his last and only relative on earth. "Her decease,"
he said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, "would leave
him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last of the ancient race
of the Ushers." While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was
she called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the
apartment, and, without having noticed my presence, disappeared.
I regarded her with an utter astonishment not unmingled with
dread--and yet I found it impossible to account for such
feelings. A sensation of stupor oppressed me, as my eyes
followed her retreating steps. When a door, at length, closed
upon her, my glance sought instinctively and eagerly the
countenance of the brother--but he had buried his face in his
hands, and I could only perceive that a far more than ordinary
wanness had overspread the emaciated fingers through which
trickled many passionate tears.
The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill
of her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of
the person, and frequent although transient affections of a
partially cataleptical character, were the unusual diagnosis.
Hitherto she had steadily borne up against the pressure of her
malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed; but, on the
closing in of the evening of my arrival at the house, she
succumbed (as her brother told me at night with inexpressible
agitation) to the prostrating power of the destroyer; and I
learned that the glimpse I had obtained of her person would thus
probably be the last I should obtain--that the lady, at least
while living, would be seen by me no more.
For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either
Usher or myself: and during this period I was busied in earnest
endeavours to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We
painted and read together; or I listened, as if in a dream, to
the wild improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a
closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly
into the recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive
the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which
darkness, as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth upon
all objects of the moral and physical universe, in one unceasing
radiation of gloom.
I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours
I thus spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I
should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of the exact
character of the studies, or of the occupations, in which he
involved me, or led me the way. An excited and highly
distempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His
long improvised dirges will ring for ever in my ears. Among
other things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singular
perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last waltz of
Von Weber. From the paintings over which his elaborate fancy
brooded, and which grew, touch by touch, into vagueness at which
I shuddered the more thrillingly, because I shuddered knowing not
why;--from these paintings (vivid as their images now are before
me) I would in vain endeavour to educe more than a small portion
which should lie within the compass of merely written words. By
the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of his designs, he
arrested and overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea,
that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at least--in the
circumstances then surrounding me--there arose out of the pure
abstractions which the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his
canvas, an intensity of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt
I ever yet in the contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too
concrete reveries of Fuseli.
One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend,
partaking not so rigidly
|
although
|
How many times does the word 'although' appear in the text?
| 1
|
April 4, 1985
<b>
</b> Registered, WGAw.
<b>
</b> NOTE: Aerial dialogue in CAPS is UHF radio;
plane to plane, plane to carrier.
<b>
</b> Aerial dialogue in small case is ICS;
an inter-cockpit system; a live mike,
heard by pilot and RIO only.
<b>
</b><b> TG1 REVISED 04APR85 .
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 1. EXT. NIGHT. - THE PACIFIC IS ANYTHING BUT
</b><b>
</b> WINDS HOWL. Rain drives horizontal. The sea surges up,
nearly to the flight deck of the Aircraft Carrier USS Kitty
Hawk. The carrier plunges, driving its bow into a wall of
grey water. The deck pitches forward and back, rolls left to
right, and yaws in a corkscrew motion. The entire 93,000 ton
behemoth rises and falls in the TYPHOON-DRIVEN SWELL.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 2. SOMETHING DROPS DOWN OUT OF THE NIGHT
</b><b>
</b> A ROAR. Silver wings flash by, a cockpit, fiery jet
exhausts. A forty ton monster drops at 120 knots into an area
the size of a tennis court in a CONTROLLED CRASH.
<b>
</b> 2A. A SHOWER OF SPARKS, A SCREECH OF RUBBER AND METAL as
the gear hits the deck. The hook catches the 3 wire and the
F-14 TOMCAT is slammed to a halt. It's the scariest thing
you've ever seen, the most dangerous maneuver in aviation and
just another day at the office for a Naval Aviator.
<b>
</b><b> TITLES OVER
</b><b>
</b><b> HARD DRIVING ROCK AND ROLL - THE CARS - RIDE ME HIGH
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 3. FLIGHT DECK - THE LANDING SIGNAL OFFICER - (LSO)
</b><b>
</b> Leans almost horizontal into the winds. He holds the pickle,
controlling the landing lights and speaks into a mike. His
calm, professional commands belie the extreme conditions.
<b>
</b><b> LSO
</b><b> POWER, POWER...DON'T CLIMB...
</b><b> OKAY, HOLD WHAT YOU GOT.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 4. ANOTHER TOMCAT FLIES OVER THE RAMP
</b><b>
</b> It slams in. The pilot hits full power, catches the wire, slams
to a stop, cuts his engines.
<b>
</b><b> 5. OMITTED
</b><b>
</b><b> 6. AIR OPS - BELOW DECK
</b><b>
</b> Lots of scopes and electronic gear. The CARRIER CONTROL APPROACH
OFFICER (CCA) watches a blip on radar, reaches for his mike key.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 7. EXT. THE TWILIGHT'S LAST GLEAMING - (AERIAL)
</b><b>
</b> We float like gods, above the storm, above the cloud cover,
looking down. From
|
mike
|
How many times does the word 'mike' appear in the text?
| 2
|
Which but th' Omnipotent none could have foyld,
If once they hear that voyce, their liveliest pledge
Of hope in fears and dangers, heard so oft
In worst extreams, and on the perilous edge
Of battel when it rag'd, in all assaults
Their surest signal, they will soon resume
New courage and revive, though now they lye
Groveling and prostrate on yon Lake of Fire,
As we erewhile, astounded and amaz'd,
No wonder, fall'n such a pernicious highth.
He scarce had ceas't when the superiour Fiend
Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous shield
Ethereal temper, massy, large and round,
Behind him cast; the broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders like the Moon, whose Orb
Through Optic Glass the TUSCAN Artist views
At Ev'ning from the top of FESOLE,
Or in VALDARNO, to descry new Lands,
Rivers or Mountains in her spotty Globe.
His Spear, to equal which the tallest Pine
Hewn on NORWEGIAN hills, to be the Mast
Of some great Ammiral, were but a wand,
He walkt with to support uneasie steps
Over the burning Marle, not like those steps
On Heavens Azure, and the torrid Clime
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with Fire;
Nathless he so endur'd, till on the Beach
Of that inflamed Sea, he stood and call'd
His Legions, Angel Forms, who lay intrans't
Thick as Autumnal Leaves that strow the Brooks
In VALLOMBROSA, where th' ETRURIAN shades
High overarch't imbowr; or scatterd sedge
Afloat, when with fierce Winds ORION arm'd
Hath vext the Red-Sea Coast, whose waves orethrew
BUSIRIS and his MEMPHIAN Chivalrie,
VVhile with perfidious hatred they pursu'd
The Sojourners of GOSHEN, who beheld
From the safe shore their floating Carkases
And broken Chariot Wheels, so thick bestrown
Abject and lost lay these, covering the Flood,
Under amazement of their hideous change.
He call'd so loud, that all the hollow Deep
Of Hell resounded. Princes, Potentates,
Warriers, the Flowr of Heav'n, once yours, now lost,
If such astonishment as this can sieze
Eternal spirits; or have ye chos'n this place
After the toyl of Battel to repose
Your wearied vertue, for the ease you find
To slumber here, as in the Vales of Heav'n?
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn
To adore the Conquerour? who now beholds
Cherube and Seraph rowling in the Flood
With scatter'd Arms and Ensigns, till anon
His swift pursuers from Heav'n Gates discern
Th' advantage, and descending tread us down
Thus drooping, or with linked Thunderbolts
Transfix us to the bottom of this Gulfe.
Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n.
They heard, and were abasht, and up they sprung
Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch
On duty, sleeping found by whom they dread,
Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake.
Nor did they not perceave the evil plight
In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel;
Yet to their Generals Voyce they soon obeyd
Innumerable. As when the potent Rod
Of AMRAMS Son in EGYPTS evill day
Wav'd round the Coast, up call'd a pitchy cloud
Of LOCUSTS, warping on the Eastern Wind,
That ore the Realm of impious PHAROAH hung
Like Night, and darken'd all the Land of NILE:
So numberless were those bad Angels seen
Hovering on wing under the Cope of Hell
'Twixt upper
|
with
|
How many times does the word 'with' appear in the text?
| 5
|
...The Rose...
Gradually a building is revealed, The Rose Theatre, three-
tiered, open to the elements and empty. On the floor,
roughly printed, a poster--torn, soiled, out of date. It
says:
<b> SEPT. 7TH & 8TH AT NOON
</b>
<b> MR. EDWARD ALLEYN AND THE ADMIRAL'S MEN AT THE ROSE
</b><b> THEATRE, BANKSIDE
</b>
<b> THE LAMENTABLE TRAGEDIE OF THE MONEYLENDER REVENG'D
</b>
OVER THIS the screams of a man under torture. The screams
are coming from the curtained stage.
<b> VOICE (O.S.)
</b> You Mongrel! Why do you howl When it
is I who am bitten?
<b> INT. THE ROSE THEATRE. STAGE. DAY.
</b>
The theatre owner, PHILLIP HENSLOWE, is the man
screaming. HENSLOWE'S boots are on fire. He is pinioned
in a chair, with his feet stuck out over the hot colas of
a fire burning in a brazier. He is being held in that
position by LAMBERT, who is a thug employed by FENNYMAN,
who is the owner of the VOICE. The fourth man, FREES, is
FENNYMAN'S bookkeeper.
<b> FENNYMAN
</b> What am I, Mr. Lambert?
<b> LAMBERT
</b> Bitten, Mr. Fennyman.
<b> FENNYMAN
</b> How badly bitten, Mr. Frees?
<b> FREES
</b> Twelve pounds, one shilling and four
pence, Mr. Fennyman, including
interest.
<b> HENSLOWE
</b> Aaagh! I can pay you!
<b> FENNYMAN
</b> When?
<b> HENSLOWE
</b>
|
this
|
How many times does the word 'this' appear in the text?
| 0
|
And for that are serpents wound
In the wands his maidens bear,
And the songs of serpents sound
In the mazes of their hair.
_Some Maidens._
All hail, O Thebes, thou nurse of Semelê!
With Semelê's wild ivy crown thy towers;
Oh, burst in bloom of wreathing bryony,
Berries and leaves and flowers;
Uplift the dark divine wand,
The oak-wand and the pine-wand,
And don thy fawn-skin, fringed in purity
With fleecy white, like ours.
Oh, cleanse thee in the wands' waving pride!
Yea, all men shall dance with us and pray,
When Bromios his companies shall guide
Hillward, ever hillward, where they stay,
The flock of the Believing,
The maids from loom and weaving
By the magic of his breath borne away.
_Others._
Hail thou, O Nurse of Zeus, O Caverned Haunt
Where fierce arms clanged to guard God's cradle rare,
For thee of old some crested Corybant
First woke in Cretan air
The wild orb of our orgies,
Our Timbrel; and thy gorges
Rang with this strain; and blended Phrygian chant
And sweet keen pipes were there.
But the Timbrel, the Timbrel was another's,
And away to Mother Rhea it must wend;
And to our holy singing from the Mother's
The mad Satyrs carried it, to blend
In the dancing and the cheer
Of our third and perfect Year;
And it serves Dionysus in the end!
_A Maiden._
O glad, glad on the mountains
To swoon in the race outworn,
When the holy fawn-skin clings,
And all else sweeps away,
To the joy of the red quick fountains,
The blood of the hill-goat torn,
The glory of wild-beast ravenings,
Where the hill-tops catch the day;
To the Phrygian, Lydian, mountains!
'Tis Bromios leads the way.
_Another Maiden._
Then streams the earth with milk, yea, streams
With wine and nectar of the bee,
And through the air dim perfume steams
Of Syrian frankincense; and He,
Our leader, from his thyrsus spray
A torchlight tosses high and higher,
A torchlight like a beacon-fire,
To waken all that faint and stray;
And sets them leaping as he sings,
His tresses rippling to the sky,
And deep beneath the Maenad cry
His proud voice rings:
"Come, O ye Bacchae, come!"
_All the Maidens._
Hither, O fragrant of Tmolus the Golden,
Come with the voice of timbrel and drum;
Let the cry of your joyance uplift and embolden
The God of the joy-cry; O Bac
|
towers
|
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| 0
|
</b>
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> INT. PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT
</b>
The CAMERA briskly retreats as FORTY, HIGHLY CHARGED,
ATTRACTIVE, YOUNG PEOPLE march towards it. Each side of the
frame is black as this troupe of young actors moves up the
middle, everyone talking, grinning, squealing,... everyone
having the "high" of their lives.
<b> INT. NEW YORK CLUB - NIGHT
</b>
As the troupe, with geometric precision, spills into a large
room (containing a raised dance floor); the CAMERA begins to
move past dancing couples as a legend appears:
'This is 1975 and Matt Hobbs is singled out for the first
time.'
And now the CAMERA reveals MATT HOBBS. His open, friendly,
American face slips between some of the many cracks in his
profession. The face at 26, and forever more, not arresting
enough for a leading man; not quirky enough for a "character."
Matt must briefly walk on the dance floor to make his way
past a knot of people. He dances furiously for two seconds,
then steps down as THE DANCERS BEGIN TO SING "WOW", but just
as the song breaks out musically, we hear the SOUND OF PEOPLE
SHHHING; the singers falter and then stop as the party-goers
gather, in choreographed movement, at a ceiling mounted TV
set.
<b> MAN ON TV
</b>
We can barely discern the words. . ."with his review is
Leonard Graff."
A FRANTIC ACTRESS yelps a command:
<b> FRANTIC ACTRESS
</b> I can't hear over this shhing.
Silence, then:
<b> TV CRITIC
</b> ...a play about guess what? That's
|
people
|
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| 2
|
</b><b>
</b> Story by
<b>
</b> Gregory Allen Howard
<b>
</b><b> FADE IN:
</b><b>
</b><b> EXT. MIAMI STREET - MOVEMENT - NIGHT (1964)
</b><b>
</b> in the dark. Coming toward us. Up and down in sync to an
INSTRUMENTAL LEAD-IN from somewhere. A slip of light. A
glimpse of somebody in shadow under a sweatshirt hood,
staring at us, in and out of the dark as...
<b>
</b><b> INT. THE STAGE, HAMPTON HOUSE CLUB - EMPTY FRAME - NIGHT
</b><b>
</b> A man walks into the shot, grabs a microphone, slips out of
his jacket and looks at us. He wants to tell us something.
He's in a lavender light. This is SAM COOKE. What he calls
out...a throaty mixture of gospel, soul and sex...is "Let me
hear it!" And WOMEN SHRIEK. He says, "Yeah!" They answer,
shrieking, "Oh, yeah!"...
<b>
</b><b> EXT. MIAMI STREET - HOODED MAN'S FACE - NIGHT
</b><b>
</b> up and down, running along a dark road in the dead of night,
passing vacant lots with debris amid trees and faded
buildings. He is CASSIUS CLAY. He runs in construction
boots. His eyes stare from under the hood. He passes the
husk of an abandoned car, a pastel storefront. We're in
Overtown, Miami's inner-city black neighborhood.
<b>
</b><b> INT. THE STAGE, HAMPTON HOUSE CLUB (MIAMI) - SAM COOKE
</b><b>
</b> shouts, "Don't fight it! We gonna feel it!" The women in
the audience answer: "Gotta feel it!"
<b>
</b><b> EXT. MIAMI STREET - CASSIUS - NIGHT
</b><b>
</b> now runs diagonally across NW 7th INTERCUT with Cooke
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somewhere
|
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| 0
|
CUT TO:
</b>
<b>PHILADELPHIA'S GLORIOUSLY ORNATE CITY HALL (EXT./DAY) ...
</b>
TITLE: "Philadelphia City Hall."
<b>CITY EMPLOYEES, JUDGES, COPS, LAWYERS, CRIMINALS, TOURISTS
</b>pour into City Hall, into...
<b> TO:
</b>
<b>TWO STORY HIGH CORRIDORS THAT REEK OF HISTORY (INT-DAY).
</b>
Young lawyer JAMEY COLLINS darts through the crowd, carrying
an accordion file under his arm like a football.
Jamey elbows his way through a JAPANESE TOUR GROUP.
Jamey trots up a marble staircase, two steps at a time
<b> TO:
</b>
<b>JAMEY RUNS LIKE HELL DOWN A THIRD FLOOR CORRIDOR, FOOTSTEPS
</b>making a racket...
Jamey rushes toward a door marked "JUDGE TATE."
RAISED VOICES from inside Judge Tate's chambers:
<b> JOSEPH MILLER (OS)
</b> This construction site is
causing mortal and irreparable
harm to an unsuspecting public!
<b> ANDREW BECKETT (OS)
</b> My client has one of the finest
and most respected safety records
in the business, Your Honor!
Jamey shoves open the door, REVEALING TWO LAWYERS (BACKS TO
<b>CAMERA) STANDING BEFORE JUDGE EUNICE TATE: ANDREW BECKETT
</b>(in conservative gray) and JOSEPH MILLER (in pinstripes).
<b> JUDGE TATE
</b> One at a time. Mr. Miller?
<b> JOE
</b> Your Honor, since Rockwell Corp.
began construction, the
surrounding residential
neighborhood has been enshrouded
in a cloud of foul-smelling,
germ-carrying,
|
city
|
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| 3
|
Galaor. Quoth the other, certes either he is the greatest
coward in the world, or he goes upon some great adventure: I will
forego my own vengeance to see the end of this. By this Galaor was far
before them, for he did not tarry a whit, and they rode after him. It
was now drawing towards night. Galaor entered a forest, and soon lost
the track, for it was dark, so that he knew not which way to take. Then
he began to pray to God to guide him that he might be the first to
succour the King; and thinking that those horsemen might have led the
King apart from the road to rest themselves, he went along the bottoms
listening every where if he might hear them. The Knights thinking he
had kept the road, rode straight forward about a league till they came
through the forest, and not seeing him there they imagined he had
hidden himself, and they turned aside to lodge in the house of a Dame
hard by.
When Galaor had searched the forest throughout, and found nothing, he
resolved to proceed, and ascend some eminence the next day to look
about. So recovering the road, he went on till he came into the open
country, and there he saw before him in a valley a little fire. Thither
he went; it was some forgemen, and they seeing him come among them in
arms, took up lances and hatchets to defend themselves; but he bidding
them not fear, besought them to give him some barley for his horse.
The which they did, and he gave the beast his supper. They would have
given him also to eat, but he would not; only he lay down to sleep,
requesting them to wake him before day-break. The night was two parts
gone, and Galaor lay down by the fire, completely armed. At dawn he
rose, for he had not slept much for pure vexation, and, commending them
to God, he took his leave. His Squire had not been able to keep pace
with him, and thenceforth he vowed if God prospered him, to give his
Squire the better horse. So he rode to a high hill, and from thence
began to look all round him.
The two cousins had now left the Lady's house, and it being now day
they saw Galaor on the eminence, and knowing him by his shield rode
towards him. As they drew nigh they saw him descend the hill as fast
as horse could carry him. Certes, quoth the one, he is flying and
concealing himself for some mischief: if I come up with him, God never
help me if I do not learn from him what he hath deserved. But Galaor,
thinking nothing of them, had just seen ten Knights passing a strait
at the entrance of the forest, of whom five rode first and five behind,
and some unarmed men went in the middle. These he thought to be the
villains with the King, and went towards them like a man who has
devoted his own life to save another. Coming near, he saw Lisuarte with
the chain about his neck; and then, with grief and rage that defied
danger, he ran at the first five, exclaiming, Ah, traitors! to your own
misfortune have you laid hands upon the best man in the world! The five
at once ran at him; he smote the first so sternly, that the wood of his
lance appeared through his back, and he fell dead; the others smote
him with such force that his horse fell upon his knees, and one of
them drove his spear between Galaor's shield and breast-plate. Galaor
forced it from him, and striking at another with it, nailed his leg
to the horse, and left the broken lance in them; then putting hand to
sword, the others all came at him, and he defended himself so bravely
that every one wondered how he could bear up against such blows. But
being in this great press of danger, it pleased God to succour him
with the two cousins who were in his pursuit, who seeing his great
chivalry, exclaimed, Of a truth we wrongly called him coward: let us
go help the best Knight in the world! With that they ran full tilt to
his assistance, like men who knew their business, for they had each
been Errant Knights for ten years, and the one
|
galaor
|
How many times does the word 'galaor' appear in the text?
| 8
|
>
</b> [view looking straight down at rolling swells, sound of wind
and thunder, then a low heartbeat]
<b>
</b>
<b> PORT ROYAL
</b>
[teacups on a table in the rain]
[sheet music on music stands in the rain]
[bouquet of white orchids, Elizabeth sitting in the rain holding
the bouquet]
<b>
</b> [men rowing, men on horseback, to the sound of thunder]
[EITC logo on flag blowing in the wind]
[many rowboats are entering the harbor]
[Elizabeth sitting alone, at a distance]
[marines running, kick a door in]
[a mule is seen on the left in the barn where the marines enter]
<b>
</b><b>
</b> [Liz looking over her shoulder]
[Elizabeth drops her bouquet]
[Will is in manacles, being escorted by red coats]
<b> ELIZABETH SWANN
</b> Will...!
[Elizabeth runs to Will]
<b> ELIZABETH SWANN
</b> Why is this happening?
<b> WILL TURNER
</b> I don't know. You look beautiful.
<b> ELIZABETH SWANN
</b> I think it's bad luck for the groom
to see the bride before the wedding.
<b>
</b><b>
</b> [marines cross their long axes to bar Governor from entering]
<b>
</b><b>
</b>
|
thunder
|
How many times does the word 'thunder' appear in the text?
| 1
|
</b>
<b> OMIT
</b>
<b> INT. DARKROOM - INTERVIEW 1
</b>
In a photographic DARKROOM: old optical enlargers, porcelain
trays, timers, and stills hanging out to dry.
GEORGE MATLIN, a slightly obese, nearsighted man in his
seventies.
<b> OLD MATLIN
</b> Is he real? Oh yeah -- Absolutely.
Super: CPL. GEORGE MATLIN, combat photographer.
<b> OLD MATLIN
</b> I haven't talked about it for years,
you know?
(looks at the camera)
Everyone called me crazy...
Matlin smiles as he paws through a box of old negatives.
<b> OLD MATLIN
</b> But I have the negative.
Someone turns on the darkroom's red safety light for an eerie,
dramatic effect.
<b> TECHNICIAN'S VOICE
</b> Get ready, 3-2-1... Roll tape.
<b> OLD MATLIN
</b> It all started back in ´44. I was a
Corps photographer aboard an allied
submarine...
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> INT. SUBMARINE HALLWAY - NIGHT
</b>
YOUNG MATLIN's hands again paw through a bunch of
|
someone
|
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| 0
|
the bones I had thrown my dogs. Dirt
and confusion reigned; only upon my armor, my sword and gun, my hunting
knife and dagger, there was no spot or stain. I turned to gaze upon
them where they hung against the wall, and in my soul I hated the piping
times of peace, and longed for the camp fire and the call to arms.
With an impatient sigh, I swept the litter from the table, and,
taking from the shelf that held my meagre library a bundle of Master
Shakespeare's plays (gathered for me by Rolfe when he was last in
London), I began to read; but my thoughts wandered, and the tale seemed
dull and oft told. I tossed it aside, and, taking dice from my pocket,
began to throw. As I cast the bits of bone, idly, and scarce caring to
observe what numbers came uppermost, I had a vision of the forester's
hut at home, where, when I was a boy, in the days before I ran away to
the wars in the Low Countries, I had spent many a happy hour. Again I
saw the bright light of the fire reflected in each well-scrubbed crock
and pannikin; again I heard the cheerful hum of the wheel; again the
face of the forester's daughter smiled upon me. The old gray manor
house, where my mother, a stately dame, sat ever at her tapestry, and an
imperious elder brother strode to and fro among his hounds, seemed less
of home to me than did that tiny, friendly hut. To-morrow would be my
thirty-sixth birthday. All the numbers that I cast were high. "If I
throw ambs-ace," I said, with a smile for my own caprice, "curse me if I
do not take Rolfe's advice!"
I shook the box and clapped it down upon the table, then lifted it,
and stared with a lengthening face at what it had hidden; which done, I
diced no more, but put out my lights and went soberly to bed.
CHAPTER II IN WHICH I MEET MASTER JEREMY SPARROW
MINE are not dicers' oaths. The stars were yet shining when I left the
house, and, after a word with my man Diccon, at the servants' huts,
strode down the bank and through the gate of the palisade to the wharf,
where I loosed my boat, put up her sail, and turned her head down the
broad stream. The wind was fresh and favorable, and we went swiftly down
the river through the silver mist toward the sunrise. The sky grew pale
pink to the zenith; then the sun rose and drank up the mist. The river
sparkled and shone; from the fresh green banks came the smell of the
woods and the song of birds; above rose the sky, bright blue, with a few
fleecy clouds drifting across it. I thought of the day, thirteen years
before, when for the first time white men sailed up this same river,
and of how noble its width, how enchanting its shores, how gay and sweet
their blooms and odors, how vast their trees, how strange the painted
savages, had seemed to us, storm-tossed adventurers, who thought we had
found a very paradise, the Fortunate Isles at least. How quickly were
we undeceived! As I lay back in the stern with half-shut eyes and tiller
idle in my hand, our many tribulations and our few joys passed in review
before me. Indian attacks; dissension and strife amongst our rulers;
true men persecuted, false knaves elevated; the weary search for gold
and the South Sea; the horror of the pestilence and the blacker horror
of the Starving Time; the arrival of the Patience and Deliverance,
whereat we wept like children; that most joyful Sunday morning when we
followed my Lord de la Warre to church; the coming of Dale with that
stern but wholesome martial code which was no stranger to me who had
fought under Maurice of Nassau; the good times that followed, when
bowl-playing gallants were put down, cities founded, forts built, and
the gospel preached; the marriage of Rolfe and his dusky princess;
Argall's expedition, in which
|
cheerful
|
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| 0
|
EXT. SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA SUBURB, MAIN DRAG - DAY
</b>
Palms sway ... the sun washes everything in yellow ... cars
motor down either side of the landscaped median ... the calls
of mockingbirds mingle with the BLIP BLIP of car alarms.
ON THE SIDEWALK, a SKATEBOARD CA-LUNKS down the sidewalk,
past the foot traffic of Southern Californians: flip-flops,
Doc Marten's, Rollerblades, Nikes ... then, in the middle of
this pedestrian normalcy, a pair of IMPOSSIBLY HIGH SPIKE-
HEELED PUMPS struts out of a shop. So high it hurts to look
at them. As the shoes leave frame, we TILT UP and see
they're leaving a 99-cent store.
As the Pumps turn and head up the street, we see they are
connected to a pair of IMPOSSIBLY LONG, SHAPELY LEGS.
Eveready legs -- they just keep going and going.
They saunter past two BUSINESSMEN on a lunch break. The men
pause and glance as men tend to when they see a beautiful
woman. In fact, everyone this woman passes lets their eyes
rest on her a microsecond longer than usual.
- Two SKATEBOARDERS note the STRETCHY MICRO-MINI skimming the
tops of her thighs.
- A MAILMAN spots the BIG, DARK SUNGLASSES tucked into a
<b> MOUNTAIN OF BIG, BLOND HAIR.
</b>
- A PRE-TEEN GIRL glimpses the PLUNGING NECKLINE of the
<b> TIGHT, BRIGHT RED MIDRIFF-BARING BUSTIER.
</b>
It isn't until she rounds the corner at the end of the block
that we see her entire figure and appreciate why everyone is
so goggle-eyed. Eye-catching is an understatement. All
those folks who say Barbie's proportions are unrealistic have
obviously never met ERIN BROCKOVICH.
<b> EXT. AROUND THE CORNER - DAY
</b>
A side street. No pedestrians, just parked cars. A PARKING
TICKET flaps under the wiper of an old Hyundai.
<b> ERIN
</b> Fuck.
Even when she talks dirty, there's a heartland goodness to
her voice. Like Kansas corn fields swaying in the breeze.
As she grabs the ticket from the windshield, her sunglasses
accidentally CLATTER to the ground.
<b> ERIN
</b> Shit.
When she picks them up, a fingernail snags on the pavement.
<b> ERIN
</b> God <u>damn</u> it.
She tends to the nail as she opens her car door and gets in.
<b> WIDER ON THE STREET
</b>
The Hyundai starts it up, signals. Then, just as it pulls
slowly out into the street, a JAGUAR
|
picks
|
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| 0
|
too
comfortable."
"I cannot understand people," said Harriet. "What can they be doing all
day? And there is no church there, I suppose."
"There is Santa Deodata, one of the most beautiful churches in Italy."
"Of course I mean an English church," said Harriet stiffly. "Lilia
promised me that she would always be in a large town on Sundays."
"If she goes to a service at Santa Deodata's, she will find more beauty
and sincerity than there is in all the Back Kitchens of Europe."
The Back Kitchen was his nickname for St. James's, a small depressing
edifice much patronized by his sister. She always resented any slight on
it, and Mrs. Herriton had to intervene.
"Now, dears, don't. Listen to Lilia's letter. 'We love this place, and
I do not know how I shall ever thank Philip for telling me it. It is
not only so quaint, but one sees the Italians unspoiled in all their
simplicity and charm here. The frescoes are wonderful. Caroline, who
grows sweeter every day, is very busy sketching.'"
"Every one to his taste!" said Harriet, who always delivered a platitude
as if it was an epigram. She was curiously virulent about Italy, which
she had never visited, her only experience of the Continent being an
occasional six weeks in the Protestant parts of Switzerland.
"Oh, Harriet is a bad lot!" said Philip as soon as she left the room.
His mother laughed, and told him not to be naughty; and the appearance
of Irma, just off to school, prevented further discussion. Not only in
Tracts is a child a peacemaker.
"One moment, Irma," said her uncle. "I'm going to the station. I'll give
you the pleasure of my company."
They started together. Irma was gratified; but conversation flagged,
for Philip had not the art of talking to the young. Mrs. Herriton sat
a little longer at the breakfast table, re-reading Lilia's letter. Then
she helped the cook to clear, ordered dinner, and started the housemaid
turning out the drawing-room, Tuesday being its day. The weather was
lovely, and she thought she would do a little gardening, as it was quite
early. She called Harriet, who had recovered from the insult to St.
James's, and together they went to the kitchen garden and began to sow
some early vegetables.
"We will save the peas to the last; they are the greatest fun," said
Mrs. Herriton, who had the gift of making work a treat. She and her
elderly daughter always got on very well, though they had not a great
deal in common. Harriet's education had been almost too successful. As
Philip once said, she had "bolted all the cardinal virtues and couldn't
digest them." Though pious and patriotic, and a great moral asset for
the house, she lacked that pliancy and tact which her mother so much
valued, and had expected her to pick up for herself. Harriet, if she had
been allowed, would have driven Lilia to an open rupture, and, what was
worse, she would have done the same to Philip two years before, when he
returned full of passion for Italy, and ridiculing Sawston and its ways.
"It's a shame, Mother!" she had cried. "Philip laughs at everything--the
Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars.
People won't like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against
itself cannot stand."
Mrs. Herriton replied in the memorable words, "Let Philip say what he
likes, and he will let us do what we like." And Harriet had acquiesced.
They sowed the duller vegetables first, and a pleasant feeling of
righteous fatigue stole over them as they addressed themselves to the
peas. Harriet stretched a string to guide the row straight, and Mrs.
Herriton scratched a furrow with a pointed stick. At the end of it she
looked at her watch.
"It's twelve! The second post's in. Run and see if there are any
letters."
Harriet did not want to go. "Let's finish the peas. There won't be any
letters."
|
though
|
How many times does the word 'though' appear in the text?
| 1
|
May 20, 1986
With Revision #5 (Goldenrod)
January 27, 1987
April 7, 1986
With Revision #6 (Goldenrod)
January 30, 1987
<b>
</b><b>------------------------------------------------------------------------
</b>
<b> "HUNTER"
</b>
<b> FADE IN
</b>
<b> 1 EXT. OUTER SPACE 1
</b>
The infinite blackness punctuated by a billion stars.
As we slowly DESCEND through the varied shades of blue
of the Earth's atmosphere, we HEAR the first strains of
a haunting, Central American FLUTE, joined by a swelling
background of JUNGLE SOUNDS. We descend further,
through a lush JUNGLE CANOPY, backlit by a setting sun.
<b> DISSOLVE TO:
</b>
<b> 2 EXT. JUNGLE COASTLINE - DAY (MAGIC HOUR) 2
</b>
Through a collage of shimmering HEAT-WAVES, a dark,
OTHER-WORLDLY OBJECT drops INTO VIEW, backlit by the
fiery, ORANGE-RED sphere of a setting tropical SUN,
heading slowly towards us, floating, as if suspended by
the rising heat of the jungle.
Continuing to approach, the shimmering object resolves
into a MILITARY ASSAULT HELICOPTER, its rotors strobing
in the fading sunlight. Drawing closer, the SOUND of
powerful TURBINES, throbbing in the heavy air, becomes
dominant, overpowering.
Guided by COLORED SMOKE and LANDING LIGHTS, the chopper
looms hard INTO VIEW, pitching forward and settling to
the ground, kicking up a maelstrom of dust and vegetation
<b> 2-A INT. COMMAND POST - DAY (MAGIC HOUR) 2-A *
</b>
Where a MAN wearing a military UNIFORM watches through
the large open windows the helicopter as it continues
to approach. Before the skids have even touched down he
SEES the first of the MEN, dressed in CIVILIAN CLOTHES
but carrying full COMBAT GEAR, alight gracefully from
the chopper, double-timing in close order to one side,
the orders SHOUTED by one man lost in the
|
jungle
|
How many times does the word 'jungle' appear in the text?
| 3
|
happiness and her own;
but that of being an indifferent mother was not among them. She had
worried her husband daily for years because he was not in Parliament,
she had worried him because he would not furnish the house in Portman
Square, she had worried him because he objected to have more people
every winter at Greshamsbury Park than the house would hold; but now
she changed her tune and worried him because Selina coughed, because
Helena was hectic, because poor Sophy's spine was weak, and Matilda's
appetite was gone.
Worrying from such causes was pardonable it will be said. So it was;
but the manner was hardly pardonable. Selina's cough was certainly
not fairly attributable to the old-fashioned furniture in Portman
Square; nor would Sophy's spine have been materially benefited by
her father having a seat in Parliament; and yet, to have heard Lady
Arabella discussing those matters in family conclave, one would have
thought that she would have expected such results.
As it was, her poor weak darlings were carried about from London to
Brighton, from Brighton to some German baths, from the German baths
back to Torquay, and thence--as regarded the four we have named--to
that bourne from whence no further journey could be made under the
Lady Arabella's directions.
The one son and heir to Greshamsbury was named as his father, Francis
Newbold Gresham. He would have been the hero of our tale had not that
place been pre-occupied by the village doctor. As it is, those who
please may so regard him. It is he who is to be our favourite young
man, to do the love scenes, to have his trials and his difficulties,
and to win through them or not, as the case may be. I am too old now
to be a hard-hearted author, and so it is probable that he may not
die of a broken heart. Those who don't approve of a middle-aged
bachelor country doctor as a hero, may take the heir to Greshamsbury
in his stead, and call the book, if it so please them, "The Loves and
Adventures of Francis Newbold Gresham the Younger."
And Master Frank Gresham was not ill adapted for playing the part
of a hero of this sort. He did not share his sisters' ill-health,
and though the only boy of the family, he excelled all his sisters
in personal appearance. The Greshams from time immemorial had been
handsome. They were broad browed, blue eyed, fair haired, born with
dimples in their chins, and that pleasant, aristocratic dangerous
curl of the upper lip which can equally express good humour or scorn.
Young Frank was every inch a Gresham, and was the darling of his
father's heart.
The de Courcys had never been plain. There was too much hauteur, too
much pride, we may perhaps even fairly say, too much nobility in
their gait and manners, and even in their faces, to allow of their
being considered plain; but they were not a race nurtured by Venus
or Apollo. They were tall and thin, with high cheek-bones, high
foreheads, and large, dignified, cold eyes. The de Courcy girls had
all good hair; and, as they also possessed easy manners and powers
of talking, they managed to pass in the world for beauties till they
were absorbed in the matrimonial market, and the world at large cared
no longer whether they were beauties or not. The Misses Gresham were
made in the de Courcy mould, and were not on this account the less
dear to their mother.
The two eldest, Augusta and Beatrice, lived, and were apparently
likely to live. The four next faded and died one after another--all
in the same sad year--and were laid in the neat, new cemetery at
Torquay. Then came a pair, born at one birth, weak, delicate, frail
little flowers, with dark hair and dark eyes, and thin, long, pale
faces, with long, bony hands, and long bony feet, whom men looked on
as fated to follow their sisters with quick steps. Hitherto, however,
they had not followed them, nor had they suffered as their sisters
had suffered; and some people at Gres
|
were
|
How many times does the word 'were' appear in the text?
| 9
|
A 5-year old girl wearing pajamas wanders alone down the
street.
<b> FRANKIE
</b><b> (BARELY AUDIBLE)
</b> Me-gan!
<b> INT. PERIERA HOME - PRESENT DAY
</b><b> 2 2
</b>
FRANKIE crawls through a dog door. She walks into the living
room where the TV is on loud.
DEAN PERIERA, 30 years old, hefty, sleeps in a lazyboy.
<b> FRANKIE
</b><b> (HUSHED)
</b> Daddydaddydaddy.
Frankie uses the footrest to crawl up onto her dad's belly.
<b> FRANKIE (CONT'D)
</b> Wake up Daddy.
<b> DEAN (WAKING)
</b> What time is it baby?
She sniffles. He notices.
<b> EXT. PERIERA HOME - BACK/FRONT YARDS - PRESENT DAY
</b>
The back door opens and Dean carries Frankie to the yard. The
first yellow rays of sunlight hit their faces.
He looks over the lawn, an empty bowl, water tin and a
doghouse posting the name MEGAN. He peeks inside the
doghouse. There's no one home. Dean moves to
|
dean
|
How many times does the word 'dean' appear in the text?
| 3
|
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