2010, ISBN: 9780192804648

Hardcover

Viking. Good. Paperback. 2010. 228 pages. Cover worn.<br>The inimitable William Trevor returns w ith a story of suspicion, guilt, forbidden love and the possibili ty of starting ove… More...

Viking. Good. Paperback. 2010. 228 pages. Cover worn.<br>The inimitable William Trevor returns w ith a story of suspicion, guilt, forbidden love and the possibili ty of starting over. It s summer, and nothing much is happening in Rathmoye. So it doesn t go unnoticed when a dark-haired stran ger begins photographing the mourners at Mrs. Connulty s funeral. Florian Kilderry couldn t know that the Connultys were said to o wn half the town. But Miss Connulty resolves to keep an eye on Fl orian ... and she becomes a witness to the ensuing events. In a c haracteristically masterful way, Trevor evokes the passions and f rustrations in an Irish town during one long summer. Editorial R eviews From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. The tragic consequ ences of a woman's lost honor and a family's shame haunt several generations in Trevor's masterful 14th novel. His prose precisely nuanced and restrained, Trevor depicts a society beginning to lo osen itself from the Church's implacable condemnation of sexual i mmorality. Years ago, Miss Connulty's dragon of a mother forced h er into lifelong atonement after she was abandoned by her lover. Now, in the mid-1950s, middle-aged and forever marked for spinste rhood in her small Irish town, she is intent on protecting Ellie Dillahan, the naïve young wife of an older farmer. A foundling ra ised by nuns, Ellie was sent to housekeep for the widowed farmer, and she is content until her dormant emotions are awakened by a charming but feckless bachelor, Florian Kilderry, who has plans t o soon leave Ireland. Their affair is bittersweet, evoking Floria n's regretful knowledge that he will cause heartbreak and Ellie's shy but urgent passion and culminating in a surprising resolutio n. Trevor renders the fictional town of Rathmoye with the precise detail of a photograph, while his portrait of its inhabitants is more subtle and painterly, suggesting their interwoven secrets, respectful traditions and stoic courtesy. (Sept.) Copyright ® Re ed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rig hts reserved. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Revie w Trevor is fantastically effective at foreboding; he can make a reader squirm just by withholding the next bit of some long-past anterior action he's been recounting. . . . Love and Summer, the latest item from his venerable suitcase, is a thrilling work of a rt. -- Thomas Mallon, The New York Times Marvellously written, c onsummately plotted. . . . One of the joys of Love and Summer is the perfection of its Irish geography and the wealth of emotions attached to it. . . . As brief and beautiful as summer itself, it is a book to be read and reread, as perfect a thing as our blemi shed world can offer -- The Globe and Mail A triumph of style an d content. -- The Herald Love and Summer is so exquisite I had t o pace myself reading it, so it wouldn't end too soon. -- Belfast Telegraph --This text refers to the hardcover edition. From Boo kmarks Magazine Trevor is a master storyteller, and Love and Summ er exhibits all the hallmarks of his most luminous works: his sta rk and graceful prose; his profound insight into the human heart; and his hauntingly authentic characters, precisely sketched in j ust a few short lines. In Trevor's provincial Ireland, every pers on has a story--a secret hope or a heartache--and he teases them out and weaves them together subtly and seamlessly. Gentle, naïve Ellie is the highlight of this spare and nuanced portrayal of fr agile humans dwarfed by life's circumstances (Philadelphia Inquir er), and while Trevor offers no easy answers or tidy endings, he provides a believable and satisfying denouement. Readers, along w ith the critic from the Boston Globe, will find it hard to leave Rathmoye. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. About the Author William Trevor has won the Hawthornden Prize and he is a four-time nominee for the Man Booker Prize. He received the David Cohen Literature Prize recognizing a lifetime s literary achieve ment, and he was knighted for his services to literature. Born in Michelstown, County Cork, he now lives in Devon. --This text ref ers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission . All rights reserved. 1. On a June evening some years after the middle of the last century Mrs Eileen Connulty passed through th e town of Rathmoye: from Number 4 The Square to Magennis Street, into Hurley Lane, along Irish Street, across Cloughjordan Road to the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer. Her night was spent there. The life that had come to an end had been one of good works and resolution, with a degree of severity in domestic and family mat ters. The anticipation of personal contentment, which had long ag o influenced Mrs Connulty's acceptance of the married state and t he bearing of two children, had since failed her: she had been di sappointed in her husband and in her daughter. As death approache d, she had feared she would now be obliged to join her husband an d prayed she would not have to. Her daughter she was glad to part from; her son - now in his fiftieth year, her pet since first he lay in her arms as an infant - Mrs Connulty had wept to leave be hind. The blinds of private houses, drawn down as the coffin wen t by, were released soon after it had passed. Shops that had clos ed opened again. Men who had uncovered their heads replaced caps or hats, children who had ceased to play in Hurley Lane were no l onger constrained. The undertakers descended the steps of the chu rch. Tomorrow's Mass would bring a bishop; until the very last, M rs Connulty would be given her due. People at that time said the family Mrs Connulty had married into owned half of Rathmoye, an impression created by their licensed premises in Magennis Street, their coal yards in St Matthew Street, and Number 4 The Square, a lodging house established by the Connultys in 1903. During the decades that had passed since then there had been the acquisition of other properties in the town; repaired and generally put righ t, they brought in modest rents that, accumulating, became a size able total. But even so it was an exaggeration when people said t hat the Connultys owned half of Rathmoye. Compact and ordinary, it was a town in a hollow that had grown up there for no reason t hat anyone knew or wondered about. Farmers brought in livestock o n the first Monday of every month, and borrowed money from one of Rathmoye's two banks. They had their teeth drawn by the dentist who practised in the Square, from time to time consulted a solici tor there, inspected the agricultural machinery at Des Devlin's o n the Nenagh road, dealt with Heffernan the seed merchant, drank in one of the town's many public houses. Their wives shopped for groceries from the warehouse shelves of the Cash and Carry, or in McGovern's if they weren't economizing; for shoes in Tyler's; fo r clothes, curtain material and oilcloth in Corbally's drapery. T here had once been employment at the mill, and at the mill's elec tricity plant before the Shannon Scheme came; there was employmen t now at the creamery and the condensed-milk factory, in builders ' yards, in shops and public houses, at the bottled-water plant. There was a courthouse in the Square, an abandoned railway statio n at the end of Mill Street. There were two churches and a conven t, a Christian Brothers' school and a technical school. Plans for a swimming-pool were awaiting the acquisition of funds. Nothing happened in Rathmoye, its people said, but most of them went on living there. It was the young who left - for Dublin or Cork or L imerick, for England, sometimes for America. A lot came back. Tha t nothing happened was an exaggeration too. The funeral Mass was on the morning of the following day, and when it was over Mrs Co nnulty's mourners stood about outside the cemetery gates, declari ng that she would never be forgotten in the town and beyond it. T he women who had toiled beside her in the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer asserted that she had been an example to them all. They recalled how no task had been too menial for her to undertake, h ow the hours spent polishing a surfeit of brass or scraping away old candle-grease had never been begrudged. The altar flowers had not once in sixty years gone in need of fresh water; the mission ary leaflets were replaced when necessary. Small repairs had been effected on cassocks and surplices and robes. Washing the chance l tiles had been a sacred duty. While such recollections were sh ared, and the life that had ended further lauded, a young man in a pale tweed suit that stood out a bit on a warm morning surrepti tiously photographed the scene. He had earlier cycled the seven a nd a half miles from where he lived, and was then held up by the funeral traffic. He had come to photograph the town's burnt-out c inema, which he had heard about in a similar small town where rec ently he had photographed the perilous condition of a terrace of houses wrenched from their foundations in a landslip. Dark-haire d and thin, in his early twenties, the young man was a stranger i n Rathmoye. A suggestion of stylishness - in his general demeanou r, in his jaunty green-and-bluestriped tie - was repudiated by th e comfortable bagginess of his suit. His features had a misleadin g element of seriousness in their natural cast, contributing furt her to this impression of contradiction. His name was Florian Kil derry. 'Whose funeral?' he enquired in the crowd, returning to i t from where he had temporarily positioned himself behind a parke d car in order to take his photographs. He nodded when he was tol d, then asked for directions to the ruined cinema. 'Thanks,' he s aid politely, his smile friendly. 'Thanks,' he said again, and pu shed his bicycle through the throng of mourners. Neither Mrs Con nulty's son nor her daughter knew that the funeral attendance had been recorded in such a manner, and when they made their way, se parately, back to Number 4 The Square they remained ignorant of t his unusual development. The crowd began to disperse then, many t o gather again in Number 4, others to return to their interrupted morning. The last to go was an old Protestant called Orpen Wren, who believed the coffin that had been interred contained the mor tal remains of an elderly kitchenmaid whose death had occurred th irty-four years ago in a household he had known well. The respect ful murmur of voices around him dwindled to nothing; cars drove o ff. Alone where he stood, Orpen Wren remained for a few moments l onger before he, too, went on his way. * Cycling out of the tow n, Ellie wondered who the man who'd been taking photographs was. The way he'd asked about the old picture house you could tell he didn't know Rathmoye at all, and she'd never seen him on the stre ets or in a shop. She wondered if he was connected with the Connu ltys, since it was the Connultys who owned the picture house and since it had been Mrs Connulty's funeral. She'd never seen photog raphs taken at a funeral before, and supposed the Connultys could have employed him to do it. Or he was maybe off a newspaper, the Nenagh News or the Nationalist, because sometimes in a paper you 'd see a picture of a funeral. If she'd gone back to the house af terwards she could have asked Miss Connulty, but the artificial-i nsemination man was expected and she'd said she'd be there. She hurried in case she'd be late, although she had worked it out tha t she wouldn't be. She would have liked to go back to the house. She'd have liked to see the inside of it, which she never had, al though she'd been supplying Mrs Connulty with eggs for a long tim e. It could be the photographs were something the priests wanted , that maybe Father Balfe kept a parish book like she'd once been told by Sister Clare a priest might. Keeping a book would be mor e like Father Balfe than Father Millane, not that she knew what i t would contain. She wondered if she'd be in a photograph herself . When the camera was held up to take a picture she remembered sl ender, fragile-seeming hands. The white van was in the yard and Mr Brennock was getting out of it. She said she was sorry, and he said what for? She said she'd make him a cup of tea. * After h e had spent only a few minutes at the remains of the cinema, Flor ian Kilderry broke his journey at a roadside public house called the Dano Mahoney. He had been interrupted at the cinema by a man who had noticed his bicycle and came in to tell him he shouldn't be there. The man had pointed out that there was a notice and Flo rian said he hadn't seen it, although in fact he had. 'There's pe rmission needed,' the man crossly informed him, admitting when he snapped shut the two padlocks securing the place that they shoul dn't have been left open. 'See Miss O'Keeffe in the coal yards,' he advised. 'You'll get permission if she thinks fit.' But when F lorian asked about the whereabouts of the coal yards he was told they were closed today as a mark of respect. 'You'll have noticed a funeral,' the man said. In the bar Florian took a glass of wi ne to a corner and lit a cigarette. He had had a wasted journey, the unexpected funeral his only compensation, and from memory he tried to recall the images of it he had gathered. The mourners ha d conversed in twos and threes, a priest among them, several nuns . A few, alone, had begun to move away; others had stood awkwardl y, as if feeling they should stay longer. The scene had been a fa miliar one: he had photographed funerals before, had once or twic e been asked to desist. Sometimes there was a moment of drama, or a display of uncontrollable grief, but today there had been neit her. On the other hand, what he had been allowed to see of the c inema was promising. Through smashed glass a poster still adverti sed Idiot's Delight, the features of Norma Shearer cut about and distorted. He'd been scrutinizing them when the man shouted at hi m, but he never minded something like that. The Coliseum the cine ma had been called, Western Electric sound newly installed. A sm ell of frying bacon wafted into the bar, and voices on a radio. S porting heroes - wrestlers, boxers, jockeys, hurlers - decorated the walls, with greyhounds and steeple-chasers. The publican, a f ramed newspaper item declared, had been a pugilist himself, had g one five rounds with Jack Doyle, the gloves he'd worn hanging fro m a shelf behind the bar. 'Give a rap on the old counter if you'd want a refill,' he advise, Viking, 2010, 2.5, Fourth Estate Limited. Very Good. 4.37 x 0.79 x 7.01 inches. Paperback. 2001. 356 pages. Spine faded<br>In 1943, America thought it had rounded up all the German spies on its soil. Now Germany's greatest weap on - a woman with special talents, both for tradecraft and for de ath - is headed home with critical information about the still-de veloping atomic bomb, and the Allies chief hope for stopping her is a British agent with agendas of his own. Originally recruited into MI5 to pose as a double agent, he's been telling Germans tha t he'd do anything to free his wife, a prisoner of a Polish conce ntration camp. This happens to be true. The question is: how much would he really do to set her free? Where are his loyalties exac tly? As the two spies play cat-and-mouse across three countries, the ambiguities deepen, each figure showing new sides, each actio n providing new twists, until at last both agents are swept into a series of climaxes as breathtakingly unpredictable as they are inevitable. Editorial Reviews Review In his debut no vel, A Gathering of Spies, John Altman delivers an old-fashioned page-turner, energetically told. Katarina Heinrich is a beautiful Nazi spy living in deep cover as the wife of a Princeton profess or. When her husband is hired to help develop the atomic bomb in Los Alamos, Catherine, as she is known, uncovers the secret and r esolves to carry it to Germany at all costs. A Gathering of Spi es fuses the plots of Katarina and a British double agent, Winter botham, whose wife is incarcerated in a Polish prison camp. Winte rbotham believes he will do anything to obtain her freedom. Does that include trading the Allies' greatest secrets? In an exciting role reversal, Katarina is the superhuman agent capable of storm ing a British stronghold and retrieving a high-ranking German pri soner. Winterbotham, by contrast, is cerebral and unknown even to himself. His secret plots are revealed subtly. If there is a fl aw in A Gathering of Spies, it is that Altman's plots get too int ertwined. You might find yourself having to reread passages to ge t the buried implications. But Altman never commits the cardinal sin of obscuring important clues only to illuminate them in the l ast pages for the aha! conclusion. A Gathering of Spies represent s titans like Einstein, Roosevelt, Churchill, and Hitler with cas ual confidence--there to remind us that the stakes of this myster y are nothing less than the fate of the world. --Kathi Inman Bere ns --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition o f this title. From Publishers Weekly This atmospheric debut thri ller smells deliciously of Hitchcock and 1940s British spy films. Beautiful Catherine Danielson Carter is really Katarina Heinrich , a Nazi spy who has gone deep undercover, found work as a housek eeper in Princeton, N.J., and married her employer. As the wife o f aging nuclear scientist Richard Carter, Katarina is able to get work at a federal shipbuilding plant. Her instincts are aroused when her husband is invited to work on the Manhattan Project in L os Alamos, N.M. Taking advantage of her situation, Katarina finds a letter from Albert Einstein that details the plans for the A-b omb. Galvanized into action, she murders her way to several new i dentities in her quest to get her information to London, where he r former lover and fellow agent, Fritz Meissner, is stationed. Fr itz has ostensibly been recruited by the British as a double agen t working for Operation Double Cross, feeding misinformation to t he Germans. The Americans discover Katarina's true identity and t rail her to England, where they warn Andrew Taylor, head of MI5. He, in turn, recruits brilliant Prof. Harry Winterbotham to expos e Fritz and aid in the search for Katarina. Winterbotham agrees t o help, while hatching a secret plan to rescue his Jewish wife, w ho is trapped in Poland. In painting a perfect WWII British setti ng complete with quirky characters reeking of mutton and pipe tob acco, Altman belies his U.S. origins. But throw in Admiral Canari s's plot to assassinate Hitler, a double- or triple-cross in ever y chapter, covert Nazi submarines, a lighthouse and a plethora of bodies, and you get an irresistible page-turner from a welcome n ew voice in the genre. 75,000 first printing; $100,000 ad/promo; foreign rights sold in Italy and the Netherlands. (July) Copyrig ht 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Booklist Set in 1943, Altman's espionage tale mixes the atom bomb, Operat ion Double Cross, and the anti-Hitler conspiracy, which is rather too many subjects. Consequently, the story defaults to simplisti c pursuit and hand-to-hand-combat mode. The protagonist, virtuoso killer Katarina Heinrich, is a Nazi agent whose husband works at Los Alamos. After snooping around, she finds Einstein's famous l etter to FDR recommending construction of extremely powerful bomb s of a new type. To warn her beloved Vaterland, she must get to E ngland and contact a fellow agent, whom the British have turned a s part of Double Cross. Walking into the trap, our antiheroine tu rns the tables with virtuosic martial arts and knife skills. Leav ing a bloody mess behind and creating a few more en route to the coast to catch a U-boat, she runs right into the subplot. Henry W interbotham, a Double Cross dangle who poses as a disgruntled int elligence officer, is also waiting for the boat. After some more mayhem, he, not she, gets to Germany, where he is fed a message f or Churchill from military intelligence chief Wilhelm Canaris: Wi ll the British agree to an armistice in the event of an anti-Nazi coup? Altman is said to be writing a sequel, doubtless devoted t o the denouement of Canaris' inquiry and the further adventures o f femme fatale Katarina. Advertising will generate attention, but predictable Katarina and her operations lack the intricacies tha t impress spy-thriller buffs. Gilbert Taylor Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to a n out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Kirkus Reviews A debut suspenser chock-full of the requisite genre elem ents?plus a lot more gore than even those specs call for.Katerina Heinrich is a Nazi agent. To leave it at that, however, is to un derstate considerably. SheÂ's not only a spy, but she may be the best spy whoÂ's ever lived. She's cunning, trained to kill in ump teen thousand different ways, has the beauty of sirens, and is mo tivated to the point of zealotry. We meet her first in New York i n 1933, where the far-seeing Nazis have planted her. By page thre e she's committed murder, her victim a blameless young woman whos e identity she appropriates. It's this act that eventually?plotti ng gets a bit shaky here?leads her to Los Alamos in time to cotto n onto atomic bomb secrets, which she's determined to deliver to the Fatherland. In the meantime, in England, Professor Harry Wint erbotham, an elderly, scholarly literature teacher, is following his own unlikely path into the espionage business. He's been recr uited by MI-5 to help perpetrate the famous ?Operation Double Cro ss,Â' the intricate feint that bamboozled the Germans into guessi ng wrong about D-Day. Though Winterbotham is no ideologue, he's n o less motivated than Katerina. He adores his wife Ruth. The Nazi s are holding her in Dachau, and Winterbotham has his own, very p rivate plan to gain her freedom no matter what the cost. Predicta bly, then, two paths are made to converge in order to stage a cli mactic confrontation. And so there they are?the old professor and the young Mata Hari?with their hands on each other's throats whi le the fate of nations hangs in the balance.Beatings, shootings, knifings, stranglings, some of it graphically detailed, most of i t competently handled?but all of it oh-so-familiar.First printing of 75,000; $100,000 ad/promo -- Copyright © 2000 Kirkus Associat es, LP. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of prin t or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author John Al tman is a graduate of Harvard, where he designed his own major, D evelopment and Construction of the Novel. Although the major requ ired him to write three novels, they were all destroyed in a fire at his parents' home. He lives in New York City, and is at work on a sequel to A Gathering of Spies. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From AudioFile I t's unusual for a reader with a proper English accent to convinci ngly speak pure American. Page does it flawlessly in this excitin g tale of WWII espionage, making the Germans and even a cockney s eem real. Katarina Hendrick, a German spy and talented killer who has been in deep cover in the U.S. for ten years, discovers U.S. atomic secrets and sets on a bloody mission to convey them to th e Nazi masters. A British professor turned double agent attempts to stop her--AND rescue his wife from a concentration camp. As th e unique plot twists and turns, it's clear the two are on a colli sion course. As a rule, this listener is not fond of British read ers--they tend to make the action seem slower--but Page is a clea r exception. His dynamic narration is crisp, and he moves the act ion along relentlessly. A.L.H. ® AudioFile 2001, Portland, Maine- - Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. ., Fourth Estate Limited, 2001, 3, OUP Oxford. Very Good. 12.7 x 1.91 x 19.69 cm. Paperback. 2005. 320 pages. <br>It was the time when the rush for spoils filled a corner of the forest with the yelping of hounds, the cracking of whips, the flaring of torches. The appetites let loose were satis fied at last, shamelessly, amid the sound of crumbling neighbourh oods and fortunes made in six months. The city had become an orgy of gold and women.' The Kill (La Curée) is the second volume in Zola's great cycle of twenty novels, Les Rougon-Macquart, and the first to establish Paris - the capital of modernity - as the cen tre of Zola's narrative world. Conceived as a representation of t he uncontrollable 'appetites' unleashed by the Second Empire (185 2-70) and the transformation of the city by Baron Haussmann, the novel combines into a single, powerful vision the twin themes of lust for money and lust for pleasure. The all-pervading promiscui ty of the new Paris is reflected in the dissolute and frenetic li ves of an unscrupulous property speculator, Saccard, his neurotic wife Renée, and her dandified lover, Saccard's son Maxime. Revi ew Nelson's translation is preceded by a highly useful and scrupu lously researched introduction [with] a depth of analysis rarely found in introduction of this kind... The translation itself is s ensitive and elegant...the text reads as an engaging and thoughtf ul close rereading of the original which is especially effective in bringing Zola's fascination with descriptive detail to the att ention of the anglophone reader without syntactically overburdeni ng the prose. (Hannah Thompson, Modern Languages Review vol 102, part1) ., OUP Oxford, 2005, 3<

2005, ISBN: 9780192804648

Ivy Books. Very Good. 4.19 x 1.12 x 6.79 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2005. 512 pages. Cover worn<br>Bestselling author Nicole Jordan weaves a breathtakingly sensuous story of lo… More...

Ivy Books. Very Good. 4.19 x 1.12 x 6.79 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2005. 512 pages. Cover worn<br>Bestselling author Nicole Jordan weaves a breathtakingly sensuous story of love and passion between the v aliant Ariane of Claredon and the fierce knight who loses his hea rt to her. . . . For five turbulent years Ariane has dutifully p repared herself for marriage to King Henry's most trusted vassal, the legendary Norman knight Ranulf de Vernay. But cruel circumst ance has branded Ariane's father a traitor to the crown. And now Ranulf is returning to Claredon, not as a bridegroom . . . but as a conqueror. Survivor of a hellish youth, Ranulf knows well the treacheries of noblewomen-and mistrusts the regal, defiant beaut y to whom he was once betrothed. But while he shields his wounded heart with impenetrable armor, she sears his soul with sensuous fire. Ranulf may have vowed to claim her lands and her body as hi s prize, but ultimately it is the mighty warrior who must surrend er to Ariane's proud, determined passion-and her remarkable heali ng love. Editorial Reviews Review Ms. Jordan proves herself a m arvelous storyteller. -Rendezvous From the Back Cover Bestsellin g author Nicole Jordan weaves a breathtakingly sensuous story of love and passion between the valiant Ariane of Claredon and the f ierce knight who loses his heart to her. . . . For five turbulen t years Ariane has dutifully prepared herself for marriage to Kin g Henry's most trusted vassal, the legendary Norman knight Ranulf de Vernay. But cruel circumstance has branded Ariane's father a traitor to the crown. And now Ranulf is returning to Claredon, no t as a bridegroom . . . but as a conqueror. Survivor of a hellis h youth, Ranulf knows well the treacheries of noblewomen-and mist rusts the regal, defiant beauty to whom he was once betrothed. Bu t while he shields his wounded heart with impenetrable armor, she sears his soul with sensuous fire. Ranulf may have vowed to clai m her lands and her body as his prize, but ultimately it is the m ighty warrior who must surrender to Ariane's proud, determined pa ssion-and her remarkable healing love. About the Author Nicole J ordan is the nationally bestselling author of numerous historical romances. She recently moved with her real-life hero to the Rock y Mountains of Utah, where she is at work on her next sizzling ta le of dangerous rakes and bold adventurers during the Regency era . You can e-mail her via her website at www.NicoleJordanAuthor.co m. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Vern ay Keep, Normandy: November 1154 The warm lips nuzzling his bare skin no longer had the power to arouse him, nor did the cool, si lken hair trailing provocatively over his naked back. Ranulf lay sprawled on his stomach upon the musky linen sheets, sated and sp ent, his body glistening with sweat after his exertions. Pleasing two lusty wenches at once taxed even a man of his strength and s tamina. Yet Layla continued her merciless assault with mouth and tongue, her lush, opulent curves pressing erotically against him , her nails sending delicate shivers racing along his spine, her teeth intermittently nipping his buttocks with a sharpness that w as just short of pain. Enough, he muttered huskily-a command he lacked the energy to enforce. When she bent to offer a luscious breast to him, teas- ing her dusky nipple against his mouth, Ranu lf patiently averted his head. When she threaded her fingers thro ugh his raven hair and tugged insistently, he merely caught her w rist and pried loose her grip. It was only when Layla scraped her nails in a deliberate path over his scarred back that he finally reacted; she knew quite well such probing of his scars was forbi dden, even though he had been unable to break her of the habit. Cease, wench. At his sharp tone, the ripe young body at his othe r side flinched, and Ranulf had to murmur gently to Flore and str oke her soothingly till she curled against him once more. For te mperament, he much preferred the petite, fair-haired Flore to the voluptuous Layla, whose ebony tresses were as dark as his own. F lore was a sweetly submissive Norman wench, always eager to do hi s bidding, whereas the foreign Layla had a grasping, querulous na ture. Only because of her exquisite skills did he humor the beaut iful Saracen. I seek simply to pleasure you, lord, she said petu lantly in her thick, honeyed accents. You know well Layla pleases you far better than any other. Ranulf could not dispute her cla im. Stolen from her family and enslaved in an infidel brothel, La yla had been trained in the sexual arts of the East, and knew wel l how to satisfy a man and bring his desire to a fever pitch. If he also gained a bitter measure of satisfaction in possessing th e exotic concubine his detested father had brought back from the Holy Land . . . well then, he would not deny himself the pleasure , even if he was perforce required to bear with Layla's sharp ton gue and acid jealousy. He could have chosen from a dozen peasant wenches just as eager to warm his bed, and yet tonight he had nee ded the fierce release the Saracen could bring him. He needed to forget. Summoning Flore at the same time only increased the odds that he would find respite from the demons that shadowed him. Yo u are cruel to Layla, lord, she complained, running her tongue ov er her pouting lower lip. Methinks thrice is enough, Ranulf reto rted, his tone dry, even for a woman of your passion. In answer, she captured his hand and held it to the satiny flesh of her gen erous breast. You dislike my passion? You desire Layla no longer? Ranulf grinned unwillingly as he gave her taut nipple a playful squeeze. You would have to geld me to quench my desire for you, wench. But it is time for you to seek your own pallet. When Layla made to protest, Ranulf raised his powerful body up on one elbow . You know my wishes. I sleep alone. In truth, he was not singli ng her out for punishment by sending her away. His solitary slumb er was a self-imposed rule. Though he took great pleasure in the female body, he rarely lingered with a woman. Too much sensual in dulgence bred softness in a warrior; a knight who cavorted too of ten grew lazy and careless. When Layla refused to budge, Ranulf gave her bare flank a mild cuff, which made her squeal in mock pr otest. Defiantly, she lay back upon the dishevelled pillows, gaz ing up at him with languorous, seductive eyes. Provocatively her long fingers played over her sumptuous breasts, caressing the dus ky crimson nipples in erotic invitation, while her lush thighs sp read for his masculine appreciation. Once more, lord, I beg you. . . . Despite her disobedience, Ranulf gave a rough chuckle. He was sated enough at the moment to be amused at her tactics, and w ise enough to relent. Sometimes it behooved a man to let a wench win small victories so that she yielded more readily in important matters. Once more, then. His fingers splayed over the smooth m ound between her thighs, shaved bare in the Saracen style . . . p arting the damp, passion-flushed lips, seeking the tender nubbin that was a woman's delight. Layla drew a sharp breath and closed her eyes, while her legs opened wide, giving his stroking finger s full access to her heated, dewy center. With controlled experti se, he caressed the slick flesh, sliding slowly inside the hot, s leek moistness. Layla quivered with arousal. In merely moments a throaty moan of rapture escaped her; her head fell back in ecstas y as she arched her supple back, her voluptuous, golden body undu lating in the flickering candlelight. Ranulf viewed her breathle ss, writhing response with gratification. Layla deserved to be re warded for her earlier exquisite ministrations. She had provided him comfort tonight; it was only fair he reciprocate. Indeed, for the past fortnight-ever since he'd returned home to Vernay to co ol his heels and await a summons from Duke Henry-Layla had succor ed him frequently. He should feel more remorse, perhaps, at relax ing his own strict custom of self-denial. Yet if he indulged his lust more often than usual when occupying Vernay Keep, it was bec ause the diversion helped keep the memories at bay. Restlessly, Ranulf lifted his gaze from the panting woman in his bed to glanc e beyond the open bed curtains. The solar at Vernay, where the lo rd slept and spent his leisure, remained a cold, stark, spartan c hamber, devoid of comforts other than a roaring fire in the heart h and an occasional tapestry draping the stone walls to thwart th e chill. He had refused to change a single appointment since his father's tenancy, perversely determined to preserve the bitter ev idence of his past. Yet he was lord here now, Ranulf reminded hi mself. The honor of Vernay belonged to him, given to him in fief by Duke Henry, along with a charter of nobility that had reinstat ed him to his rightful rank. He was a disinherited, landless cast off no longer. For all his present power and wealth, though, he could not quell the unease that always assaulted him in this cham ber-the place where his father had flayed the flesh from his back . Even now, his skin turned clammy with dread each time he entere d these apartments, for he could not help recalling the terror an d pain of his youth. He had no need even to shut his eyes to reme mber crouching there against the far wall as a child, naked and t rembling, waiting to endure the punishment of a vengeful sire. No t even the current consolation of heated female flesh could compl etely drive away the memories-although it made up in some measure for the countless hours of fear and torment he had suffered here . The distant blare of the night watchman's horn brought Ranulf' s head up like a wolf scenting the wind. At his sudden tensing, L ayla's eyes flew open. Nay! My lord . . . you cannot cease. . . . Her demanding tone was sharp and insistent-and breathless as we ll. He smiled faintly as his brutal memories faded. We have time . And they would. Any new arrival must first await the lowering of the drawbridge, then ride through the outer and inner baileys before seeking entrance to Vernay's tower. He had the leisure to bring Layla to fulfillment. Yet even before the grateful, sobbi ng woman had collapsed against him, Ranulf's thoughts had already moved ahead to review his plans. If the new arrival was indeed t he duke's messenger with a summons, it meant King Stephen had die d and Henry was preparing to claim his rightful crown as king of England. And since Henry was certain to be met with resistance, h e would need to raise adequate forces to ensure the successful as sumption of power. Ranulf felt anticipation swell at the promise d conflict. Not only was he willing to supply the knight's fees h e owed his liege, he was impatient to take up arms for Henry. He had remained idle too long, his battle sword and lance growing ru sty with disuse. For the past three months and more, peace had re igned in Normandy. There had been no rebellions, no skirmishes, n ot even a nearby tourney where he could hone his skills and exhau st his frustrations in the melee or increase his wealth by captur ing enemy knights for ransom. For the past fortnight all had bee n in readiness for the forthcoming journey: the armor polished, t he weapons sharpened, and the baggage wains staged for loading. H is knights and men-at-arms had engaged in daily practice, sparrin g in swordplay, tilting at the quintains, shooting archery butts, and yet, they too were restless at the delay and eager to begin the campaign. And now it seemed the moment was at hand. As Ranu lf expected, a lengthy interval passed before a rap sounded on th e iron-banded door-time which he spent attending to Flore's pleas ure in reward for her sweetness and patience. At his command to e nter, Ranulf's vassal, Payn FitzOsbern, strode into the solar, ha lf-dressed in an unlaced tunic and grinning broadly. Duke Henry? Ranulf queried as he eased his body over the Saracen wench to si t on the edge of the massive bed. Aye, the duke-soon to be king of England. He rides for the coast in two days' time and expects us to accompany him. Payn made no apparent attempt to keep the gl ee from his tone. The messenger would speak with you. Flashing h is own grin, Ranulf solicitously twitched the linen sheet up over the two nude women in his bed. Bid him enter. The messenger had obviously ridden hard from the duke's court, for his cloak was s pattered with mud, while grime and weariness lined his face. He c onfirmed what Payn had already announced, adding more details abo ut the departure plans and composition of Henry's forces, and war ning of the resistance expected from the late King Stephen's supp orters in England. Satisfied, Ranulf dismissed the man with orde rs to seek food and rest in the hall, then strode naked to the ta ble where refreshment awaited. Pouring wine from a flagon into tw o pewter cups, he handed one to Payn and raised his own. On to E ngland, then! Aye, on to England! May we find a vast supply of E nglish rebels to vanquish-before your impatience renders your tem per even more vile than of late. I? Ranulf's black eyebrow rose in amused mockery. My disposition has been sweet as honey. His v assal gave a snort of laughter. And what of the three quintains y ou destroyed yesterday? Had their straw forms been infidels, we w ould have freed the Holy Land by now! I vow I've encountered wild boars less dangerous than you after you've been caged here at Ve rnay for any length. Ranulf's sole response was a shrug as he dr ained his cup. Perhaps. Yet I see you have been laboring at a cu re for your foul mood. Payn grinned wickedly as, with a nod of hi s head, he indicated the women in his lord's bed. By the rood, tw o wenches at once, Ranulf? Could you not save some for the rest o f us? Ranulf surveyed the handsome, chestnut-haired knight with wry amusement. I much doubt you lacked for company yourself. Nay , but for some reason I find utterly unfathomable, females seem t o favor you, despite your black scowl. Simply because I take the time to ensure their pleasure instead of seeking merely my own. At Payn's grimace, it was Ranulf's turn to grin. Less selfishness would stand you in good stead, my friend. Doubtless you are rig ht. Tilting his head back, Payn swallowed the remainder of his wi ne, then glanced at Ra- nulf with a measure of slyness. And wise, as well. Best get your fill of your lemans now while you still c an. Your bride will be none too pleased to share you after the we dding. A lady of her rank will expect you to devote your attentio ns to her, at least in the beginning. Ranul, Ivy Books, 2005, 3, OUP Oxford. Very Good. 12.7 x 1.91 x 19.69 cm. Paperback. 2005. 320 pages. <br>It was the time when the rush for spoils filled a corner of the forest with the yelping of hounds, the cracking of whips, the flaring of torches. The appetites let loose were satis fied at last, shamelessly, amid the sound of crumbling neighbourh oods and fortunes made in six months. The city had become an orgy of gold and women.' The Kill (La Curée) is the second volume in Zola's great cycle of twenty novels, Les Rougon-Macquart, and the first to establish Paris - the capital of modernity - as the cen tre of Zola's narrative world. Conceived as a representation of t he uncontrollable 'appetites' unleashed by the Second Empire (185 2-70) and the transformation of the city by Baron Haussmann, the novel combines into a single, powerful vision the twin themes of lust for money and lust for pleasure. The all-pervading promiscui ty of the new Paris is reflected in the dissolute and frenetic li ves of an unscrupulous property speculator, Saccard, his neurotic wife Renée, and her dandified lover, Saccard's son Maxime. Revi ew Nelson's translation is preceded by a highly useful and scrupu lously researched introduction [with] a depth of analysis rarely found in introduction of this kind... The translation itself is s ensitive and elegant...the text reads as an engaging and thoughtf ul close rereading of the original which is especially effective in bringing Zola's fascination with descriptive detail to the att ention of the anglophone reader without syntactically overburdeni ng the prose. (Hannah Thompson, Modern Languages Review vol 102, part1) ., OUP Oxford, 2005, 3<

2005, ISBN: 9780192804648

OUP Oxford. Very Good. 12.7 x 1.91 x 19.69 cm. Paperback. 2005. 320 pages. <br>It was the time when the rush for spoils filled a corner of the forest with the yelping of hounds, th… More...

OUP Oxford. Very Good. 12.7 x 1.91 x 19.69 cm. Paperback. 2005. 320 pages. <br>It was the time when the rush for spoils filled a corner of the forest with the yelping of hounds, the cracking of whips, the flaring of torches. The appetites let loose were satis fied at last, shamelessly, amid the sound of crumbling neighbourh oods and fortunes made in six months. The city had become an orgy of gold and women.' The Kill (La Curée) is the second volume in Zola's great cycle of twenty novels, Les Rougon-Macquart, and the first to establish Paris - the capital of modernity - as the cen tre of Zola's narrative world. Conceived as a representation of t he uncontrollable 'appetites' unleashed by the Second Empire (185 2-70) and the transformation of the city by Baron Haussmann, the novel combines into a single, powerful vision the twin themes of lust for money and lust for pleasure. The all-pervading promiscui ty of the new Paris is reflected in the dissolute and frenetic li ves of an unscrupulous property speculator, Saccard, his neurotic wife Renée, and her dandified lover, Saccard's son Maxime. Revi ew Nelson's translation is preceded by a highly useful and scrupu lously researched introduction [with] a depth of analysis rarely found in introduction of this kind... The translation itself is s ensitive and elegant...the text reads as an engaging and thoughtf ul close rereading of the original which is especially effective in bringing Zola's fascination with descriptive detail to the att ention of the anglophone reader without syntactically overburdeni ng the prose. (Hannah Thompson, Modern Languages Review vol 102, part1) ., OUP Oxford, 2005, 3<

2005, ISBN: 0192804642

[EAN: 9780192804648], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: OUP Oxford], PARIS (FRANCE) -- SOCIAL LIFE AND CUSTOMS FICTION, DEWEY: 843.8, 320 pages. It was the time when the rush for spoils… More...

[EAN: 9780192804648], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: OUP Oxford], PARIS (FRANCE) -- SOCIAL LIFE AND CUSTOMS FICTION, DEWEY: 843.8, 320 pages. It was the time when the rush for spoils filled a corner of the forest with the yelping of hounds, the cracking of whips, the flaring of torches. The appetites let loose were satis fied at last, shamelessly, amid the sound of crumbling neighbourh oods and fortunes made in six months. The city had become an orgy of gold and women.' The Kill (La Curée) is the second volume in Zola's great cycle of twenty novels, Les Rougon-Macquart, and the first to establish Paris - the capital of modernity - as the cen tre of Zola's narrative world. Conceived as a representation of t he uncontrollable 'appetites' unleashed by the Second Empire (185 2-70) and the transformation of the city by Baron Haussmann, the novel combines into a single, powerful vision the twin themes of lust for money and lust for pleasure. The all-pervading promiscui ty of the new Paris is reflected in the dissolute and frenetic li ves of an unscrupulous property speculator, Saccard, his neurotic wife Renée, and her dandified lover, Saccard's son Maxime. Revi ew Nelson's translation is preceded by a highly useful and scrupu lously researched introduction [with] a depth of analysis rarely found in introduction of this kind. The translation itself is s ensitive and elegant.the text reads as an engaging and thoughtf ul close rereading of the original which is especially effective in bringing Zola's fascination with descriptive detail to the att ention of the anglophone reader without syntactically overburdeni ng the prose. (Hannah Thompson, Modern Languages Review vol 102, part1), Books<

ISBN: 0192804642

Schuber oder Umschlag können fehlen oder beschädigt sein. Gebraucht - Gut. Ihr professioneller Partner für wiederaufbereitete, [PU: Oxford Universi… More...

Schuber oder Umschlag können fehlen oder beschädigt sein. Gebraucht - Gut. Ihr professioneller Partner für wiederaufbereitete, [PU: Oxford University Press]<