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  • Riad Ramadanje citiraoпре 2 месеца
    Dortmunder slumped on the hard wooden chair, watching his attorney try to open a black attaché case. Two little catches were supposed to release when two bright buttons were pressed, but neither of them worked. In other cubicles all around this one, defendants and their court-appointed attorneys murmured together, structuring threadbare alibis, useless mitigations, attenuated extenuations, mathematically questionable plea bargains, chimerical denials and hopeless appeals to the mercy of the court, but in this cubicle, with its institutional green walls, its black linoleum floor, the great hanging globe of light, the frosted-glass window in its door, its battered wooden table and two battered wooden chairs and one battered metal waste-basket, nothing was happening at all, except that the attorney assigned to Dortmunder by an uncaring court and a malevolent fate couldn’t get his goddam attaché case open. “Just a—” he muttered. “It’s always a—I don’t know why it—I’ll—It’s just a—”
    Dortmunder shouldn’t have been here at all, of course, waiting for his preliminary hearing on several hundred counts of burglary and knowing he was merely the victim of another accident of fate. Two weeks, two solid weeks, he’d cased that TV repair shop—he’d even brought in a perfectly good Sony table model and let them charge him for six new tubes and nine hours’ labor—and not once had any police patrol gone down the alley behind the row of stores. A prowl car cruised past the front from time to time, but that was all. And the cops were definitely never there when the pornographic movie house around the corner let out; at those moments they were always parked across the street from the theater, glaring through their windshield as the patrons came slinking past, as though their moral disapproval would somehow make up for their legal inef
  • ndiahnew23je citiraoпрошле године
    It was a damp, cold rain that penetrated even through his topcoat and sent chills deep into bones.

    Damp : yyuuu

  • Masha Chestukhinje citiralaпре 2 године
    certain irritability—a sort of Bostonitis—which, in its primitive puritan forms, seemed due to knowing too much of his neighbors and thinking too much of himself.”
  • Ирина Осипенкоje citiralaпре 2 године
    “She had her own ideas about what combinations to investigate and she wanted to run her own parallel studies.
  • Ирина Осипенкоje citiralaпре 2 године
    Surprise, Leo, you can still think like a pro when you have to.
  • Ирина Осипенкоje citiralaпре 2 године
    My friend, but so different. For him, life was a test. Honor and courage the subjects. Death the examiner. Nothing else mattered but how you faced it. True as far as it went, but there were other things that mattered. The niche you filled in another’s heart that helped them face life. A life rich with pleasure was not incompatible with honor and courage. Perhaps it eroded it, compromised it. Arnie had little to lose when he died. He wore his life lightly, and stepped from it easily. He faced death well but skimped on life, tasting few of its pleasures.
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