TJR - Ass Hypnotized Feat. Dances With White Girls LINK
Ada Rivers was one of those girls who have come up since. Theupper-middle classes had experienced many incursions. All sorts ofastonishing innovations had taken place. Many races had come to England,or rather to London, which is in England but not of it; had made money,had bred their sons at the great public schools and universities andtheir daughters at convents in France and Belgium. These dark-haired,gray-eyed, stylish, highly strung, athletic, talented girls arephenomena of the Stockbroking Age. They do things Lady Rowena and LadyClara Vere de Vere would not tolerate for a moment. Outwardly resemblingthe wealthy Society Girl, they are essentially quite different. Somemarry artists and have emotional outbreaks. Some combine a very genuineromantic temperament with a disheartening sophistication about incomesand running a home. They not only wish to marry so that they can beginwhere their parents leave off, but they know how to do it. They canengage a competent house-maid and rave about Kubelik on the sameafternoon, and do both in an experienced sort of way. They go everywhereby themselves, and to men whom they dislike they are sheathed in shiningarmour. They can dance, swim, motor, golf, entertain, earn their ownliving, talk music, art, books, and china, wash a dog and doctor him.And they can do all this, mark, without having any real experience ofwhat we call life. They are good girls, nice girls, virtuous girls, andvery marriageable girls, too, but they have a superficial hardness oftexture on their character which closely resembles the mask ofexperience. They are like the baggage which used to be sold in certainobscure shops in London with the labels of foreign hotels already pastedon it. It follows that sometimes this girl of the upper-middle,comfortably fixed class makes a mistake in her choice. Or rather, shecredits with heroic attributes a being of indifferent calibre. Sherealizes in him some profound but erratic emotion, and the world inwhich she moves beholds her behaviour and listens to her praise of herbeloved with annoyance. They speak, not of a mistake of course, but ofthe strangeness of girls nowadays, and incompatibility of temperaments.But perhaps the most remarkable aspect of these affairs is the blindnessof the girl's friends to her frequent superiority over the being whomshe adores. She isn't good enough for him, they say. The fact is, at thetime of this story, fine women were cheap in England, and gentlemen ofindifferent calibre were picking up bargains every day.
TJR - Ass Hypnotized Feat. Dances With White Girls
And so on. Mr. Spokesly wrote this letter from Alexandria, where theTanganyika was discharging rails and machinery. He wrote it to Ada,who was staying with her family, including her married sister, inCornwall, because of the air raids. She read it by the low roar of theautumnal seas round the Cornish coast and she was thrilled. Havingwritten it, Mr. Spokesly dressed himself in discreet mufti and wentashore with his bosom friend, Archy Bates. His commander, walking to andfro on the bridge with his after-dinner cigar, saw them disappearbetween the tracks and the piles of freight. He frowned. He was no snob,but he had most explicit views about a ship's officer's relations withthe rest of mankind. It was, in his opinion, infra dig to associatewith a steward. He had mentioned it pointedly yet good-humouredly oneday, and at his amazement Mr. Spokesly had replied that he would pleasehimself in a private matter. Captain Meredith had been so flabbergastedat this wholly unexpected turn of the conversation that he said no more.Later he put it down to swelled head. Yet what else could be done? Mr.Spokesly had a master's certificate and the third mate had none at all.Captain Meredith began to muse regretfully upon the loss of his chiefofficer. For although Mr. Spokesly had omitted to mention it, theimmediate cause of his promotion was the sudden death at sea of hispredecessor. That gnarled and taciturn being, whose round moon-face hadrelapsed with age to the consistency of puckered pink parchment, hadbeen for many years "taking care of himself." In that remote epoch whenhe was young it may be doubted whether he had done this, for he bore themarks of a life lived to the very delirious verge. That was long beforeMr. Spokesly had got into short pants, however. Mr. McGinnis took careof himself day and night. He had achieved a miraculous balance of forceswithin his frame, a balance which enabled him to stand his watch on thebridge and give orders to the bo'sun, but no more. He would pass with astealthy quietness along the deck and into his room, and there sit, hisclaw-like hands on the arms of his chair, his emaciated form encased ina diamond-patterned kimono, his pink jaws working noiselessly on a pieceof some patent chewing gum, of which he carried a stock. Sometimes heread a page or two of a quiet story, but usually he switched off theelectric and sat chewing far into the night. At a quarter to four onemorning, the Asiatic sailor who came to arouse him discovered himhanging by his arms to the edge of his bunk, as though crucified, hisappallingly thin limbs sprawling and exposing tattooings of astonishingdesign and colouring, his jaw hanging, his sunken eyes staring withsenseless curiosity at a spot on the carpet. The Japanese sailor wentback to Mr. Spokesly, who was on watch on the bridge, and reportedimpassively, "Chief mate all same one stiff." Mr. Spokesly wasincredulous, though he knew from experience the uncanny prescience ofthe Oriental in such matters. "What? Sick?" he inquired in a whisper.The Japanese, a diminutive white wraith in the profound gloom of thebridge, replied, "No sick. All same one stiff. No can do." This was hisfinal word. Mr. Spokesly hurriedly aroused the captain, who came out onthe bridge and told them to go down together. They went down and Mr.Spokesly had a violent shock. He told Archy Bates afterwards he had "hada turn." He did all that a competent officer could do. He spoke sharplythe man's name. "Mr. McGinnis!" and Mr. McGinnis continued to regard thespot on the carpet with intense curiosity. He felt the breast, held ashaving glass to the lips of the silent McGinnis, and realized that theOriental who stood by the door, his dark face impassive and his gazedeclined upon the floor, was perfectly right. As Mr. Spokesly raised thestiffened arms the kimono fell open, and he had another violent shock,for Mr. McGinnis had evidently been a patron of the art of tattooing inall its branches. His arms and torso formed a ghastly triptych of greenand blue figures with red eyes. Contrasted with the pallor of death thedreadful designs took on the similitude of living forms. With a movementof hasty horror Mr. Spokesly laid the body on the settee and went awayto call Mr. Chippenham and the chief steward.
For a moment the clear vision of Archy obsequiously waiting on thecaptain, getting him some hot water perhaps, or laying out a fresh suitof underwear, troubled the darkness of Mr. Spokesly's ruminations. Aclear vision, such as even the mediocre have at times. And close to it,as though another miniature in another oval frame, a sharp, clear-cutmemory of Ada Rivers looking up at him with gray adoring eyes, the proudtremble of her passionate mouth, the curve of her white throat....
"Oh, you want it mended. Well, why don't you ship a tinker, my finefellow? Eh? Why not indent for a tinker? You've got a carpenter and alamp trimmer and a bo'sun and a squad of quartermasters. What's a tinkermore or less?" And sitting back in his swivel chair and blowing greatclouds, he looked maliciously at Mr. Spokesly. The chief was a man withan atmosphere. He had an immense experience, which he kept to himselfsave at the hour of need. He had an admirable staff who did just what hewanted without any rhetoric. Save at times like the present moment, whenMr. Spokesly, though he was quite unaware of it, was very much de tropowing to a breakdown in the engine room, the chief was a tolerant andbreezy example of the old school. Just now, with the sweat cooling onhis back and a battered binnacle offered to him for repair, he tookrefuge in dry malice. He studied Mr. Spokesly mercilessly. He was, or atany rate he looked, perfectly aware of the extreme unfitness of Mr.Spokesly's bodily frame, for Mr. Spokesly had done no real work since hehad passed for second mate eleven years before. The chief himself wasinclined to obesity, for he verged on fifty and his frame was of theherculean type, needing much nourishment and upholstery. But there was adifference between the huge, red-freckled and hirsute masses upon hisbones and the soft puffiness of Mr. Spokesly's fatty degeneration. Thelatter's double chin was in singular contrast with the massive andmuscular salience that gave the chief's face an expression ofindomitable vigour. He sat there, tipping himself slightly back in hisswivel chair, looking quizzically at Mr. Spokesly through the tobaccosmoke. Mr. Spokesly was annoyed. The chief had always been a decentsort, he had imagined, and here he was jibbing at a little thing likethis. After all, it was the engineer's business to do these things. He,an officer, couldn't be expected to attend to petty details.... A shortfigure with a towel over his naked shoulders appeared abruptly out ofthe engine room and passed along the alleyway. The chief called in hisstentorian tones, which issued from between twisted and broken teeth,"Hi, Mr. Tolleshunt, here's a job for ye. Mate wants a binnacle fixed."And Mr. Spokesly's mind became easy. A voice from behind a slammed doorsaid that the mate could take his binnacle and chase himself round thedeck with it, and the chief cackled. Mr. Tolleshunt came out of his roomagain on his way to the bathroom. He was a young man with a thick whiteneck, and black eyes set in a dirty, dead-white face which bore anexpression of smouldering rage. This, however, was merely an index ofcharacter which, like many such indexes, was misleading. Mr. Tolleshuntwas not ill-tempered, but he had a morbid passion for efficiency. He wasan idealist, with a practical working ideal. He was not prepared toaccept anything in the world as an adequate substitute for achievement.He had seen through Mr. Spokesly at once, for your idealist is often aclairvoyant of character. And as he passed along to his bath, hisblack eyes smouldered upon the chief officer, who remembered the manyinsults he had swallowed from this dirty engineer, and hated him.Suddenly Mr. Tolleshunt paused, with his hand on the bathroom door, andlooked back. His dead-white face, the firm modelling of cheek and chincuriously exaggerated by the black smears of grease, broke into a grimsmile as he spoke. 041b061a72