Every year, Peter and Susan Reed go on holiday to Lea-on-Sea and stay at the Hotel Vista. This year, a man is pretending to be Peter. He greets people that Peter knows, claiming they've met before. Peter becomes afraid, wondering what the man wants. When they spot the man near a cafe, they chase him but lose him. Later, they find a photo the man took of them at the beach in their hotel room. The man then appears with a gun, revealing he is actually Stephen Griggs, someone Susan knew in the past. He knocks Peter out and frames him for Susan's murder. The police arrive and arrest Peter, believing he shot Susan.
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Buku ini digunakan sebagai panduan dasar belajar memprogram dan mengoperasikan mesin CNC bagi pemula. Buku ini cocok digunakan untuk siswa, mahasiswa, dosen dan juga masyarakat umum yang akan mendalami tentang CNC.
Bahasan pemrograman dalam buku ini mengacu pada pengoperasian mesin CNC Fanuc Oi-TF untuk type lathe
pemesanan buku di www.zento.id | 085643165633
It was too late to call up for a cab or anything, so I walked the .docxdonnajames55
It was too late to call up for a cab or anything, so I walked the whole way to the station. It wasn't too far, but it was cold as hell, and the snow made it hard for walking, and my Gladstones kept banging hell out of my legs. I sort of enjoyed the air and all, though. The only trouble was, the cold made my nose hurt, and right under my upper lip, where old Stradlater'd laid one on me. He'd smacked my lip right on my teeth, and it was pretty sore. My ears were nice and warm, though. That hat I bought had earlaps in it, and I put them on--I didn't give a damn how I looked. Nobody was around anyway. Everybody was in the sack.
I was quite lucky when I got to the station, because I only had to wait about ten minutes for a train. While I waited, I got some snow in my hand and washed my face with it. I still had quite a bit of blood on.
Usually I like riding on trains, especially at night, with the lights on and the windows so black, and one of those guys coming up the aisle selling coffee and sandwiches and magazines. I usually buy a ham sandwich and about four magazines. If I'm on a train at night, I can usually even read one of those dumb stories in a magazine without puking. You know. One of those stories with a lot of phony, lean-jawed guys named David in it, and a lot of phony girls named Linda or Marcia that are always lighting all the goddam Davids' pipes for them. I can even read one of those lousy stories on a train at night, usually. But this time, it was different. I just didn't feel like it. I just sort of sat and not did anything. All I did was take off my hunting hat and put it in my pocket.
All of a sudden, this lady got on at Trenton and sat down next to me. Practically the whole car was empty, because it was pretty late and all, but she sat down next to me, instead of an empty seat, because she had this big bag with her and I was sitting in the front seat. She stuck the bag right out in the middle of the aisle, where the conductor and everybody could trip over it. She had these orchids on, like she'd just been to a big party or something. She was around forty or forty-five, I guess, but she was very good looking. Women kill me. They really do. I don't mean I'm oversexed or anything like that-- although I am quite sexy. I just like them, I mean. They're always leaving their goddam bags out in the middle of the aisle.
Anyway, we were sitting there, and all of a sudden she said to me, "Excuse me, but isn't that a Pencey Prep sticker?" She was looking up at my suitcases, up on the rack.
"Yes, it is," I said. She was right. I did have a goddam Pencey sticker on one of my Gladstones. Very corny, I'll admit.
"Oh, do you go to Pencey?" she said. She had a nice voice. A nice telephone voice, mostly. She should've carried a goddam telephone around with her.
"Yes, I do," I said.
"Oh, how lovely! Perhaps you know my son, then, Ernest Morrow? He goes to Pencey."
"Yes, I do. He's in my class."
Her son was doubtless the biggest bastard.
Sonnys BluesSonnys BluesSonnys BluesSonnys Blues I.docxrafbolet0
Sonny's BluesSonny's BluesSonny's BluesSonny's Blues
I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. I read it, and I couldn't believe
it, and I read it again. Then perhaps I just stared at it, at the newsprint spelling out his name,
spelling out the story. I stared at it in the swinging lights of the subway car, and in the faces
and bodies of the people, and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which roared
outside.
It was not to be believed and I kept telling myself that, as I walked from the subway station
to the high school. And at the same time I couldn't doubt it. I was scared, scared for Sonny.
He became real to me again. A great block of ice got settled in my belly and kept melting
there slowly all day long, while I taught my classes algebra. It was a special kind of ice. It
kept melting, sending trickles of ice water all up and down my veins, but it never got less.
Sometimes it hardened and seemed to expand until I felt my guts were going to come
spilling out or that I was going to choke or scream. This would always be at a moment when I
was remembering some specific thing Sonny had once said or done.
When he was about as old as the boys in my classes his face had been bright and open,
there was a lot of copper in it; and he'd had wonderfully direct brown eyes, and great
gentleness and privacy. I wondered what he looked like now. He had been picked up, the
evening before, in a raid on an apartment down-town, for peddling and using heroin.
I couldn't believe it: but what I mean by that is that I couldn't find any room for it anywhere
inside me. I had kept it outside me for a long time. I hadn't wanted to know. I had had
suspicions, but I didn't name them, I kept putting them away. I told myself that Sonny was
wild, but he wasn't crazy. And he'd always been a good boy, he hadn't ever turned hard or
evil or disrespectful, the way kids can, so quick, so quick, especially in Harlem. I didn't want
to believe that I'd ever see my brother going down, coming to nothing, all that light in his
face gone out, in the condition I'd already seen so many others. Yet it had happened and
here I was, talking about algebra to a lot of boys who might, every one of them for all I knew,
be popping off needles every time they went to the head. Maybe it did more for them than
algebra could.
I was sure that the first time Sonny had ever had horse, he couldn't have been much older
than these boys were now. These boys, now, were living as we'd been living then, they were
growing up with a rush and their heads bumped abruptly against the low ceiling of their
actual possibilities. They were filled with rage. All they really knew were two darknesses, the
darkness of their lives, which was now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies,
which had blinded them to that other darkness, and in which they now, vindictively,
dreamed, at once more together than they were at any other time, and more .
Sonnys BluesI read about it in the paper, in the subway, on m.docxrafbolet0
Sonny's Blues
I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. I read it, and I couldn't believe it, and I read it again. Then perhaps I just stared at it, at the newsprint spelling out his name, spelling out the story. I stared at it in the swinging lights of the subway car, and in the faces and bodies of the people, and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which roared outside.
It was not to be believed and I kept telling myself that, as I walked from the subway station to the high school. And at the same time I couldn't doubt it. I was scared, scared for Sonny. He became real to me again. A great block of ice got settled in my belly and kept melting there slowly all day long, while I taught my classes algebra. It was a special kind of ice. It kept melting, sending trickles of ice water all up and down my veins, but it never got less. Sometimes it hardened and seemed to expand until I felt my guts were going to come spilling out or that I was going to choke or scream. This would always be at a moment when I was remembering some specific thing Sonny had once said or done.
When he was about as old as the boys in my classes his face had been bright and open, there was a lot of copper in it; and he'd had wonderfully direct brown eyes, and great gentleness and privacy. I wondered what he looked like now. He had been picked up, the evening before, in a raid on an apartment down-town, for peddling and using heroin.
I couldn't believe it: but what I mean by that is that I couldn't find any room for it anywhere inside me. I had kept it outside me for a long time. I hadn't wanted to know. I had had suspicions, but I didn't name them, I kept putting them away. I told myself that Sonny was wild, but he wasn't crazy. And he'd always been a good boy, he hadn't ever turned hard or evil or disrespectful, the way kids can, so quick, so quick, especially in Harlem. I didn't want to believe that I'd ever see my brother going down, coming to nothing, all that light in his face gone out, in the condition I'd already seen so many others. Yet it had happened and here I was, talking about algebra to a lot of boys who might, every one of them for all I knew, be popping off needles every time they went to the head. Maybe it did more for them than algebra could.
I was sure that the first time Sonny had ever had horse, he couldn't have been much older than these boys were now. These boys, now, were living as we'd been living then, they were growing up with a rush and their heads bumped abruptly against the low ceiling of their actual possibilities. They were filled with rage. All they really knew were two darknesses, the darkness of their lives, which was now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies, which had blinded them to that other darkness, and in which they now, vindictively, dreamed, at once more together than they were at any other time, and more alone.
When the last bell rang, the last class ended, I let out my breath. It se.
Saving Sourdi” by May-Lee Chai Page 81-96In making distinct.docxkenjordan97598
“Saving Sourdi” by May-Lee Chai
Page 81-96
In making distinctions between at and round characters, you must
understand that an author’s use of a at character — even as a protagonist —
does not necessarily represent an artistic aw. Moreover, both at and round
characters can be either dynamic or static. Each plot can be made most effec-
tive by its own special kind of characterization. Terms such as round and fat
are helpful tools to use to determine what we know about a character, but
they are not an infallible measurement of the quality of a story.
The next three stories — May-lee Chai’s “Saving Sourdi,” Junot Díaz’s
“How to Date a Browngirl, Blackgirl, Whitegirl, or Hale,” and Herman
Melville’s “Bartleby, the Scrivener” — offer character studies worthy of
close analysis. As you read them, notice the methods of characterization
used to bring each to life.
May-lee Chai
May-lee Chai, the rst of her family
to be born in the United States, is a
San Francisco author and graduate of
Yale University. Chai has worked as a
reporter for the Associated Press and
taught creative writing at San Fran-
cisco State University, the University
of Wyoming, and Amherst College.
She is the author of seven books,
including My Lucky Face (2001), Glam-
orous Asians: Short Stories and Essays (2004), and Hapa Girl: A Memoir (2007);
and coauthor, with her father, Winberg Chai, of The Girl rom Purple Moun-
tain (2002). Her novels Dragon Chica (2010) and Tiger Girl (2013) are about
the characters in “Saving Sourdi.”
Saving Sourdi 2001
Once, when my older sister, Sourdi, and I were working alone in our fam-
ily’s restaurant, just the two of us and the elderly cook, some men got
drunk and I stabbed one of them. I was eleven.
I don’t remember where Ma had gone that night. But I remember we
were tired and it was late. We were one of the only restaurants that stayed
open past nine in those days. The men had been growing louder, until
they were our only customers, and, nally, one of them staggered up andput his arm across Sourdi’s shoulders. He called her his “China doll,”
and his friends hooted at this.
Sourdi looked distressed and tried to remove his arm, but he held
her tighter. She said, “Please,” in her incense-sweet voice, and he smiled
and said, “Say it again nice and I might just have to give you a kiss.”
That summer we’d just moved to South Dakota. After all the
crummy jobs Ma had had to take in Texas, where we’d rst come to the
U.S., where our sponsors lived, we were so proud to be working in our
own restaurant. When we moved to South Dakota, I thought we’d nd
the real America, the one where we were supposed to be, not the hot
sweaty America where we lived packed together in an apartment with
bars on the windows on a street where angry boys in cars played loud
music and shot guns at each other in the night. The summer we moved
to join my uncle’s family to run the Silver Palace, I was certain we would
at last nd the lif.
It was too late to call up for a cab or anything, so I walked the .docxdonnajames55
It was too late to call up for a cab or anything, so I walked the whole way to the station. It wasn't too far, but it was cold as hell, and the snow made it hard for walking, and my Gladstones kept banging hell out of my legs. I sort of enjoyed the air and all, though. The only trouble was, the cold made my nose hurt, and right under my upper lip, where old Stradlater'd laid one on me. He'd smacked my lip right on my teeth, and it was pretty sore. My ears were nice and warm, though. That hat I bought had earlaps in it, and I put them on--I didn't give a damn how I looked. Nobody was around anyway. Everybody was in the sack.
I was quite lucky when I got to the station, because I only had to wait about ten minutes for a train. While I waited, I got some snow in my hand and washed my face with it. I still had quite a bit of blood on.
Usually I like riding on trains, especially at night, with the lights on and the windows so black, and one of those guys coming up the aisle selling coffee and sandwiches and magazines. I usually buy a ham sandwich and about four magazines. If I'm on a train at night, I can usually even read one of those dumb stories in a magazine without puking. You know. One of those stories with a lot of phony, lean-jawed guys named David in it, and a lot of phony girls named Linda or Marcia that are always lighting all the goddam Davids' pipes for them. I can even read one of those lousy stories on a train at night, usually. But this time, it was different. I just didn't feel like it. I just sort of sat and not did anything. All I did was take off my hunting hat and put it in my pocket.
All of a sudden, this lady got on at Trenton and sat down next to me. Practically the whole car was empty, because it was pretty late and all, but she sat down next to me, instead of an empty seat, because she had this big bag with her and I was sitting in the front seat. She stuck the bag right out in the middle of the aisle, where the conductor and everybody could trip over it. She had these orchids on, like she'd just been to a big party or something. She was around forty or forty-five, I guess, but she was very good looking. Women kill me. They really do. I don't mean I'm oversexed or anything like that-- although I am quite sexy. I just like them, I mean. They're always leaving their goddam bags out in the middle of the aisle.
Anyway, we were sitting there, and all of a sudden she said to me, "Excuse me, but isn't that a Pencey Prep sticker?" She was looking up at my suitcases, up on the rack.
"Yes, it is," I said. She was right. I did have a goddam Pencey sticker on one of my Gladstones. Very corny, I'll admit.
"Oh, do you go to Pencey?" she said. She had a nice voice. A nice telephone voice, mostly. She should've carried a goddam telephone around with her.
"Yes, I do," I said.
"Oh, how lovely! Perhaps you know my son, then, Ernest Morrow? He goes to Pencey."
"Yes, I do. He's in my class."
Her son was doubtless the biggest bastard.
Sonnys BluesSonnys BluesSonnys BluesSonnys Blues I.docxrafbolet0
Sonny's BluesSonny's BluesSonny's BluesSonny's Blues
I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. I read it, and I couldn't believe
it, and I read it again. Then perhaps I just stared at it, at the newsprint spelling out his name,
spelling out the story. I stared at it in the swinging lights of the subway car, and in the faces
and bodies of the people, and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which roared
outside.
It was not to be believed and I kept telling myself that, as I walked from the subway station
to the high school. And at the same time I couldn't doubt it. I was scared, scared for Sonny.
He became real to me again. A great block of ice got settled in my belly and kept melting
there slowly all day long, while I taught my classes algebra. It was a special kind of ice. It
kept melting, sending trickles of ice water all up and down my veins, but it never got less.
Sometimes it hardened and seemed to expand until I felt my guts were going to come
spilling out or that I was going to choke or scream. This would always be at a moment when I
was remembering some specific thing Sonny had once said or done.
When he was about as old as the boys in my classes his face had been bright and open,
there was a lot of copper in it; and he'd had wonderfully direct brown eyes, and great
gentleness and privacy. I wondered what he looked like now. He had been picked up, the
evening before, in a raid on an apartment down-town, for peddling and using heroin.
I couldn't believe it: but what I mean by that is that I couldn't find any room for it anywhere
inside me. I had kept it outside me for a long time. I hadn't wanted to know. I had had
suspicions, but I didn't name them, I kept putting them away. I told myself that Sonny was
wild, but he wasn't crazy. And he'd always been a good boy, he hadn't ever turned hard or
evil or disrespectful, the way kids can, so quick, so quick, especially in Harlem. I didn't want
to believe that I'd ever see my brother going down, coming to nothing, all that light in his
face gone out, in the condition I'd already seen so many others. Yet it had happened and
here I was, talking about algebra to a lot of boys who might, every one of them for all I knew,
be popping off needles every time they went to the head. Maybe it did more for them than
algebra could.
I was sure that the first time Sonny had ever had horse, he couldn't have been much older
than these boys were now. These boys, now, were living as we'd been living then, they were
growing up with a rush and their heads bumped abruptly against the low ceiling of their
actual possibilities. They were filled with rage. All they really knew were two darknesses, the
darkness of their lives, which was now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies,
which had blinded them to that other darkness, and in which they now, vindictively,
dreamed, at once more together than they were at any other time, and more .
Sonnys BluesI read about it in the paper, in the subway, on m.docxrafbolet0
Sonny's Blues
I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. I read it, and I couldn't believe it, and I read it again. Then perhaps I just stared at it, at the newsprint spelling out his name, spelling out the story. I stared at it in the swinging lights of the subway car, and in the faces and bodies of the people, and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which roared outside.
It was not to be believed and I kept telling myself that, as I walked from the subway station to the high school. And at the same time I couldn't doubt it. I was scared, scared for Sonny. He became real to me again. A great block of ice got settled in my belly and kept melting there slowly all day long, while I taught my classes algebra. It was a special kind of ice. It kept melting, sending trickles of ice water all up and down my veins, but it never got less. Sometimes it hardened and seemed to expand until I felt my guts were going to come spilling out or that I was going to choke or scream. This would always be at a moment when I was remembering some specific thing Sonny had once said or done.
When he was about as old as the boys in my classes his face had been bright and open, there was a lot of copper in it; and he'd had wonderfully direct brown eyes, and great gentleness and privacy. I wondered what he looked like now. He had been picked up, the evening before, in a raid on an apartment down-town, for peddling and using heroin.
I couldn't believe it: but what I mean by that is that I couldn't find any room for it anywhere inside me. I had kept it outside me for a long time. I hadn't wanted to know. I had had suspicions, but I didn't name them, I kept putting them away. I told myself that Sonny was wild, but he wasn't crazy. And he'd always been a good boy, he hadn't ever turned hard or evil or disrespectful, the way kids can, so quick, so quick, especially in Harlem. I didn't want to believe that I'd ever see my brother going down, coming to nothing, all that light in his face gone out, in the condition I'd already seen so many others. Yet it had happened and here I was, talking about algebra to a lot of boys who might, every one of them for all I knew, be popping off needles every time they went to the head. Maybe it did more for them than algebra could.
I was sure that the first time Sonny had ever had horse, he couldn't have been much older than these boys were now. These boys, now, were living as we'd been living then, they were growing up with a rush and their heads bumped abruptly against the low ceiling of their actual possibilities. They were filled with rage. All they really knew were two darknesses, the darkness of their lives, which was now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies, which had blinded them to that other darkness, and in which they now, vindictively, dreamed, at once more together than they were at any other time, and more alone.
When the last bell rang, the last class ended, I let out my breath. It se.
Saving Sourdi” by May-Lee Chai Page 81-96In making distinct.docxkenjordan97598
“Saving Sourdi” by May-Lee Chai
Page 81-96
In making distinctions between at and round characters, you must
understand that an author’s use of a at character — even as a protagonist —
does not necessarily represent an artistic aw. Moreover, both at and round
characters can be either dynamic or static. Each plot can be made most effec-
tive by its own special kind of characterization. Terms such as round and fat
are helpful tools to use to determine what we know about a character, but
they are not an infallible measurement of the quality of a story.
The next three stories — May-lee Chai’s “Saving Sourdi,” Junot Díaz’s
“How to Date a Browngirl, Blackgirl, Whitegirl, or Hale,” and Herman
Melville’s “Bartleby, the Scrivener” — offer character studies worthy of
close analysis. As you read them, notice the methods of characterization
used to bring each to life.
May-lee Chai
May-lee Chai, the rst of her family
to be born in the United States, is a
San Francisco author and graduate of
Yale University. Chai has worked as a
reporter for the Associated Press and
taught creative writing at San Fran-
cisco State University, the University
of Wyoming, and Amherst College.
She is the author of seven books,
including My Lucky Face (2001), Glam-
orous Asians: Short Stories and Essays (2004), and Hapa Girl: A Memoir (2007);
and coauthor, with her father, Winberg Chai, of The Girl rom Purple Moun-
tain (2002). Her novels Dragon Chica (2010) and Tiger Girl (2013) are about
the characters in “Saving Sourdi.”
Saving Sourdi 2001
Once, when my older sister, Sourdi, and I were working alone in our fam-
ily’s restaurant, just the two of us and the elderly cook, some men got
drunk and I stabbed one of them. I was eleven.
I don’t remember where Ma had gone that night. But I remember we
were tired and it was late. We were one of the only restaurants that stayed
open past nine in those days. The men had been growing louder, until
they were our only customers, and, nally, one of them staggered up andput his arm across Sourdi’s shoulders. He called her his “China doll,”
and his friends hooted at this.
Sourdi looked distressed and tried to remove his arm, but he held
her tighter. She said, “Please,” in her incense-sweet voice, and he smiled
and said, “Say it again nice and I might just have to give you a kiss.”
That summer we’d just moved to South Dakota. After all the
crummy jobs Ma had had to take in Texas, where we’d rst come to the
U.S., where our sponsors lived, we were so proud to be working in our
own restaurant. When we moved to South Dakota, I thought we’d nd
the real America, the one where we were supposed to be, not the hot
sweaty America where we lived packed together in an apartment with
bars on the windows on a street where angry boys in cars played loud
music and shot guns at each other in the night. The summer we moved
to join my uncle’s family to run the Silver Palace, I was certain we would
at last nd the lif.
2. Brown Eyes
‘A man is pretending to be me,’ I said. ‘Why?’
Every year, Peter and Susan Reed go to Lea-on-
Sea for their holiday; every year they stay at the
Hotel Vista.
This year things start to go wrong. A man there is
pretending to be Peter. But why? Is he friendly or
dangerous — what does he want?
Will this, their thirteenth visit to Lea-on-Sea, be
their last visit?
Paul Stewart lives with his family in Brighton, and
writes books for children and young people. He has
one son - his name is Joseph, and one daughter - her
name is Anna.
He was a teacher of English in Greece, Germany
and Sri Lanka. He went to Kenya, India, Australia,
Malaysia, America and all over Europe, too - but
never to Lea-on-Sea!
3. Dictionary words:
• Some words in this book are dark black. Find them in your
dictionary or try to understand them with no dictionary first.
6. We arrived at our hotel in Lea-on-Sea early on
Saturday morning. The Hotel Vista. Susan and I always
stay there. It is very quiet, very friendly and the food is
good. I opened the door, and we walked in.
‘Good morning, Mrs Brown,’ I said.
‘Mr and Mrs Reed,’ she said. ‘It’s good to see you
again.’
‘It’s good to be here again,’ I said.
5
7. ‘Cup of coffee?’ she said. ‘Before you go up to your
room.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Where’s little Mary?’ asked Susan. Mary was Mrs
Brown’s daughter.
‘She’s in the garden,’ said Mrs Brown and laughed.
‘But she’s not little! Mary’s a tall young woman now.
‘How old is she?’ Susan asked.
‘Fifteen,’ said Mrs Brown.
‘Fifteen!’ I said. ‘Time goes quickly!’
‘1 know,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Now, coffee! Before I
forget again.’ She walked to the kitchen.
6
8. Susan looked at me. ‘I love it here, Peter,’ she said.
‘I know,’ I said.
‘When did we first meet?’ she asked. ‘Eleven years
ago? Twelve?’
‘Wrong,’ I said. ‘It’ll be thirteen years on Tuesday,’
I said. ‘In the cafe.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Susan, and shut her eyes.
7
9. The door opened, and Mary Brown looked in. She was
tall.
‘Hello,’ she said to Susan. ‘And hello again,’ she said
to me.
‘Again?’ I said.
‘Yes. Don’t you remember? Yesterday. You said
“hello” in the bank.’
‘Oh, y. . . yes!’ I said, and pretended to remember.
‘That was you!’
Mary smiled. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said. ‘Goodbye!’
‘Goodbye,’ we said. She shut the door. Susan
turned to me.
“Why did you pretend?’ she asked me.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
8
10. The sun was hot in the afternoon. After lunch, Susan
and I walked down to the sea. We swam. The water
was cold.
After that, we walked across to Connor’s Coffee
House. It was a small, quiet café near the sea.
The café! The place Susan and I first
met. We went back there every year.
I opened the door and looked
in. John Connor smiled.
‘Hello again!’ he
said to me.
9
13. It was our fourth night at the Hotel Vista. We were at
a table in the restaurant, but I did not want to eat. I
was afraid. Very afraid. Things were not right in Lea-
on-Sea.
On Sunday, it was the old On Monday, the man in
man in the newspaper shop. the bank . . .
. . . and the woman in the Yesterday, the girl in the
cinema. shoe shop.
And this afternoon, the woman in the Italian restaurant.
All of them smiled at me and said, ‘Hello again!’
12
14. ‘A man is pretending to be me,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Susan. ‘But it’s not important.
We’re . . .’
‘Not important?’ I shouted. ‘I think it is. I . . . I’m
going to the police!’
‘No,’ said Susan. ‘They’ll laugh at you. We’ll find
the man. Lea-on-Sea isn’t very big. It’ll be easy.’
I looked down. I didn’t want to meet the man!
Susan looked into my eyes. She took my hand. ‘I’m
afraid, too,’ she said.
3
15. Later that evening, we walked down to the sea. The
sun was red and yellow. The water was light blue.
‘Today is an important day,’ said Susan.
‘Important?’ I said.
‘Thirteen years,’ she said. ‘You and me! Did you
forget?’
‘I? . . . Yes, I forgot,’ I said quietly.
‘Do you love me?’ Susan asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, and turned to her.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I love you, too.’
We kissed. And for the first time on our holiday, I
was happy!
14
16. Suddenly, Susan moved back.
‘Look!’ she was right. ‘It’s him! At the café!’
She was right. There was a man with a big nose and
black hair. He shut the café door and turned right. At the
cinema, he turned right again, and walked quickly
away.
‘Run!’ said Susan. ‘We don’t want to lose him.’
We arrived at the cinema and looked down the
road.
‘Where is he?’ I said.
‘There!’ said Susan.
I saw him turn left at the bank.
‘Quickly!’ I shouted.
15
17. We ran across the road after the man.
‘Don’t go!’ I shouted.
But he didn’t hear me. We ran to the bank. There,
we stopped. I looked up and down the road.
The man was not there.
‘Where is he?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ said Susan. ‘But we’ll see him again.
I know we will. Come on,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a
drink at the hotel.’
16
18. We walked back to the Hotel Vista slowly. Susan
looked in the cafés and restaurants but she didn’t see
the man again. Luckily!
‘Perhaps we’ll never see him again,’ I said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Susan quietly.
We arrived at the door of the hotel at ten o’clock.
We heard the television. We walked in. We saw Mrs
Brown, but she didn’t see us.
I smiled. ‘Sleeping,’ I said.
17
21. I walked over to the bed. On it, face down, was a
photograph. Who was the picture of? I was afraid to
look. I took the photograph in my hand and slowly
turned it over.
‘What the . . . ?’ I shouted.
‘What is it?’ said Susan. ‘Can I see?’
‘You can,’ I said. ‘But it isn’t good!’
I gave her the photo. Susan looked at it, and jumped
back. ‘But it’s you and me!’ she said.
20
22. ‘I know,’ I said, and looked again.
It was Susan and me. Down at the sea.
‘That man!’ said Susan, excitedly. ‘He was there. It’s
his photo!’
Suddenly, we heard a noise. The door opened. And
there he was, the man with my face. And he had a gun
in his hand.
‘Very clever!’ he said quietly. ‘It was me.’
He shut the door.
‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll shoot.’
21
23. I looked at the man in horror. I wasn’t afraid of his
gun - I was afraid of his face! He had my nose, my
mouth, my ears, my hair . . .
22
25. ‘You know him!’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Susan answered. ‘His name is Stephen Griggs. I
worked with him fifteen years ago.’
‘I loved you,’ said the man. ‘We were happy.’
‘You’re a bad woman, Susan Barker,’ he said. ‘You
pretended to love me.’
‘I did not! And my name is Reed now.’
‘Stay back!’ he shouted.
Susan stopped.
‘Those cold brown eyes,’ she said. ‘Ugh!’
24
26. ‘Did he always have my face?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Susan. ‘I don’t know the game he’s
playing.’
‘You will,’ said the man. ‘You will.’
He looked at the photograph in my hand.
‘That’s for you,’ he said. ‘You can look at it, and
remember.’
‘Remember what?’ I said.
He smiled. ‘Your last walk with Susan,’ he said.
‘Before you go to prison.’
25
27. ‘Prison?’ I said. ‘Why?’
Because you shot Susan,’ he said
‘I didn’t . . .’
‘You will,’ he said. ‘Watch!’ And he turned and put
the gun to Susan’s head.
‘NOOOOOO!’ I shouted, and jumped at him.
The man shot. I shut
my eyes. When I looked
again, Susan was on the
floor. Dead.
Then, suddenly, the man turned
and hit me on the head. It all went
black — and I fell down, down, down.
26
28. After some time, I opened my eyes again. I remembered.
‘You shot her!’ I said.
‘No,’ the man smiled - with my smile! ‘You shot
her. My plan is going very well.’
I tried to get up, but it was difficult.
‘I loved her,’ I said, quietly.
‘I, too,’ he said. ‘But she was with you. All those
years. Now . . .’ He smiled again and looked at the gun.
‘Do you plan to shoot me, too?’ I said.
27
29. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I said, you’re going to prison.
Perhaps there, you’ll understand. For me, Susan was
dead before I shot her. Now she’s dead for you, too.’
He came over to me, and put his hand over my
mouth. Then I heard Mrs Brown at the door.
‘What are you doing in there?’ she shouted.
‘Mfff. ... mmwff!’ I said.
‘I shot Susan!’ the man answered for me. ‘And now
she’s dead. Dead! DEAD! Oh, Susan, I’m sorry!’
28
30. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Now she’ll phone the police. And
they’ll come — for you!’
He walked over to the window and looked out.
‘Remember,’ I said. ‘You’ve got my face, too.’
‘Not for long,’ he said. In horror, I watched him
slowly take the mask from his face.
‘Now there’s only one Peter
Reed again. You!’
‘But. . .’
‘Oh, and one more
thing. Here you are . . .’
Before I knew it,
the gun was in my
hand!
‘You can give it
to the police ‘ he
laughed.
29
31. I watched the door. It opened and four policemen
walked in. They looked at the dead woman. They
looked at the gun in my hand.
The first policeman walked over to me. ‘You come
with us,’ he said.
‘I didn’t ... It isn’t . . . I can’t . . .’ I said. I didn’t
want to go to prison.
‘Come with us,’ he said again. ‘You can talk later.
We’ve got all night.’
30
32. EXERCISES
Vocabulary Work
Look at these words:
ago forget year laugh afraid
pretend restaurant kiss turn shoot
prison in horror last shout mask
Do you understand them? Find them in a dictionary, then write
sentences with the words.
Comprehension
Answer these questions.
Pages 5-9
1 Why do Susan and Peter Reed like the Hotel Vista?
2 When did they first meet?
3 Where is Connor's Coffee House?
Pages 10-15
4 Why did Peter pretend the car was a Citroen?
5 Why did Susan not want to go to the police?
6 Who did Susan see near the cafe?
Pages 16-21
7 At what time did they arrive back at the hotel?
8 Susan and Peter thought that a man or woman was in their
room. Why?
9 Who was in the photograph?
Pages 22-25
10 Why was Peter afraid?
11 Why were the man's eyes important?
12 How did Susan know Stephen Griggs?
31
33. Pages 26-30
13 Stephen did not shoot Peter. Why?
14 Peter did not answer Mrs Brown. Why?
15 What can Peter say to the police?
Discussion
1 Is thirteen an unlucky number for you? Are some things
lucky/unlucky?
2 Would you like to have a holiday in Lea-on-Sea? Why? If not,
where? Why?
3 The police think that you shot someone! Where were you at
7.30 yesterday evening? Who was with you?
Writing
1 You are Peter. Write a letter to your best friend (in 100 words).
Tell him/her why you are in prison.
2 A policeman stays and questions Mrs Brown. Write down their
questions and answers (80 words).
Example:
Policeman: What did you hear?
Mrs Brown: I heard a noise.
Policeman: At what time?
34. Every year, Peter and Susan go to Lea-on-Sea. Every
year it is the same. But this year there is a man
pretending to be Peter. Why? What does he want?
Will this be their last visit?
Penguin Readers are simplified texts designed in association with Longman,
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