Download e-book for iPad: Angel by Elizabeth Taylor
By Elizabeth Taylor
Possibly each novelist harbors a monster at middle, an irrepressible and totally irresponsible fantasist, let alone a born and creative liar, with no which all her artwork may opt for naught. Angel, at any fee, is the tale of this type of monster. Angelica Deverell lives above her diligent, drab mother's grocery store in a dreary turn-of-the-century English local, yet spends her days dreaming of good-looking Paradise condo, the place her aunt is enthroned as a maid. yet in Angel's mind's eye, she is the mistress of the home, a realm of lavish opulence, of night robes and peacocks. Then she starts to put in writing renowned novels, and this myth turns into her lifestyles. And now that she has tasted luck, Angel has no purpose of letting somebody stand in her way--except, probably, herself.
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Now, Caleb, hold him down. Hold him under," was shouted in the voice of some eager friend. Rising up on the water, Morton made a last effort to do as he was bid. He did press the man's head down,—well down below the surface,—but still the hand clung to him, and as he struck out against the water, he was powerless against that grasp. Then there came a loud shout along the shore, and all those on the platform, whose eyes had been fixed so closely on that terrible struggle beneath them, rushed towards the rocks on the other coast.
Unluckily, before they had come hither, it had been taken round the headland to a place among the rocks at which a government skiff is always moored. The sea was still so quiet that there was hardly a ripple on it, and the boat had been again sent for when first it was supposed that they had at last traced Aaron Trow to his hidingplace. Anxiously now were all eyes turned to the headland, but as yet no boat was there. The two men rose to the surface, each struggling in the arms of the other. Trow, though he was in an element to which he was not used, though he had sprung thither as another suicide might spring to certain death beneath a railway engine, did not altogether lose his presence of mind.
For some four or five minutes they lay thus battling on the waves before the head of either of them went down. Trow had been twice below the surface, but it was before he had succeeded in supporting himself by Morton's arm. Now it seemed as though he must sink again,—as though both must sink. His mouth was barely kept above the water, and as Morton shook him with his arm, the tide would pass over him. It was horrid to watch from the shore the glaring upturned eyes of the dying wretch, as his long streaming hair lay back upon the wave.
Angel by Elizabeth Taylor