Jack Holloway found himself squinting, the orange sun full in his eyes. He raised a hand to push his hat forward, then lowered it to the controls to alter the pulse rate of the contragravity-field generators and lift the manipulator another hundred feet. For a moment he sat, puffing on the short pipe that had yellowed the corners of his white mustache, and looked down at the red rag tied to a bush against the rock face of the gorge five hundred yards away. He was smiling in anticipation...
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On the 18th June, 1815, at the very moment when the destiny of Europe was being decided at Waterloo, a man dressed like a beggar was silently following the road from Toulon to Marseilles. Arrived at the entrance of the Gorge of Ollioulles, he halted on a little eminence from which he could see all the surrounding country; then either because he had reached the end of his journey, or because, before attempting that forbidding, sombre pass which is called the Thermopylae of Provence, he wished to enjoy the magnificent view which spread to the southern horizon a little longer, he went and sat down on the edge of the ditch which bordered the road, turning his back on the mountains which rise like an amphitheatre to the north of the town, and having at his feet a rich plain covered with tropical vegetation, exotics of a conservatory, trees and flowers quite unknown in any other part of France.
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<p>I am a spider who is higher in rank than other spiders. With all humility, if all the spiders in this world were put in one hand and I was put in the other I would outweigh them in superiority. I am not one to make false claims and show-off, I am simply stating facts. I do not think that I need to introduce myself to the reader, for I am sure you understand that I am the spider of the cave that the Messenger of Allah (peace be upon him) hid in. I am the one, who was responsible for the Prophet's deliverance. I am the one, who Allah sent to protect him.</p> <p>My web is very flimsy and light and the slightest breeze can blow it away. However, despite the weakness of my web, I managed to ward off the iron swords of the atheists that went out in pursuit of the Prophet, and moreover, I was able to defeat them! The outcome of the conflict between the spiders' weak silk and the iron of the swords was the defeat of iron. My house is considered a parable of weakness, <em>"Verily, the frailest (weakest) of houses is the spider's house." </em>I sat in my house protecting the noble house of Islam and guarding the Prophet of Allah, Muhammad ibn ' Abdullah (peace be upon him).</p> <p>That was not all that happened to me. Something even more wonderful happened; I saw the Prophet. I know that after the Prophet's death, millions will visit his grave to cry and pray.</p> <p>Moreover, each one of those who cry and pray will imagine the picture of the Messenger of Allah in his mind. But I saw him. I lived with him for three days. He lived as a guest under my cobweb for three whole days. Ah! My heart spins when I remember these days. They were magnificent. Before I saw him, I only loved spiders, food and life, but after I saw him I could only bring myself to love the truth. I changed after I saw him. Have you ever seen a spider cry before? I did. I, the spider, cried when he (peace be upon him) intended to leave the cave ...He left the cave and headed towards the city.</p> <p><em>I said to him, "O Messenger of Allah I will miss you..."</em></p>
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<p>I t was in Copenhagen, in one of the houses on East Street, not far from King's Newmarket, that someone was giving a large party. For one must give a party once in a while, if one expects to be invited in return. Half of the guests were already at the card tables, and the rest were waiting to see what would come of their hostess's query:</p> <br> <p>"What can we think up now?"</p> <br> <p>Up to this point, their conversation had gotten along as best it might. Among other things, they had spoken of the Middle Ages. Some held that it was a time far better than our own. Indeed Councilor of Justice Knap defended this opinion with such spirit that his hostess sided with him at once, and both of them loudly took exception to Oersted's article in the Almanac, which contrasted old times and new, and which favored our own period. The Councilor of Justice, however, held that the time of King Hans, about 1500 A.D., was the noblest and happiest age.</p> <br> <p>While the conversation ran pro and con, interrupted only for a moment by the arrival of a newspaper, in which there was nothing worth reading, let us adjourn to the cloak room, where all the wraps, canes, umbrellas, and galoshes were collected together. Here sat two maids, a young one and an old one. You might have thought they had come in attendance upon some spinster or widow, and were waiting to see their mistress home. However, a closer inspection would reveal that these were no ordinary serving women. Their hands were too well kept for that, their bearing and movements too graceful, and their clothes had a certain daring cut.</p> <br> <p>They were two fairies. The younger one, though not Dame Fortune herself, was an assistant to one of her ladies in waiting, and was used to deliver the more trifling gifts of Fortune. The older one looked quite grave. She was Dame Care, who always goes in her own sublime person to see to her errands herself, for then she knows that they are well done.</p> <br> <p>They were telling each other about where they had been that day. The assistant of Fortune had only attended to a few minor affairs, she said, such as saving a new bonnet from the rain, getting a civil greeting for an honest man from an exalted nincompoop, and such like matters. But her remaining errand was an extraordinary one.</p>
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<p> The man was awaiting the service of his dinner in the magnificent buffet of the Gare de Lyon. He sat at a table laid for three, on the right-hand side of the entrance and close to the window. From below came the turmoil of the trains. In appearance he was of somewhat less than medium height, of unathletic, almost frail, physique. His head was thrust a little forward, as though he were afflicted with a chronic stoop. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles with the air of one who has taken to them too late in life to have escaped the constant habit of peering, which had given to his neck an almost storklike appearance.</p>
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<p> General Besserley sat before his writing-table, drawn close up to the wide-flung windows of his summer-house, his pen clasped in his idle fingers, his eyes wandering though a tangle of drooping roses and clematis beyond the gardens below to where a car was crawling up the mountain road. He leaned a little sideways and touched a bell. In a few moments a white-coated butler opened the door and approached the table.</p>
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I WONDER whether, if you had seen Lady Lucy sitting at her work that warm August morning, you would have thought her a person to be envied. She certainly looked very pretty, and not at all unhappy, as she sat in her straight-backed chair, carrying her long-waisted, snugly-laced little figure very upright, her shoulders down, and her chin drawn in,—bridled, as the phrase went. In those days—for this was at the beginning of the eighteenth century—great attention was paid to the carriage of young ladies,—more than appears to be thought necessary at the present time, to judge by the attitudes into which I often see little girls throw themselves, even in company. They were taught to sit and stand very upright, to carry their arms carefully, to turn out their toes and hold up their heads. No stooping was permitted over books or work; and while Lady Lucy was living with her aunt Bernard, she used to have a bunch of knitting-needles stuck into her bodice, to keep her from "poking" over her work.
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