Mr. Scarborough's Family,... 1883 But many young fail also, because they endeavour to tell stories when they have none to tell. And this comes from idleness rather than from innate incapacity. The mind has not been sufficiently at work when the tale has been commenced, nor is it kept sufficiently at work as the tale is continued. I have never troubled myself much about the construction of plots, and am not now insisting specially on thoroughness in a branch of work in which I myself have not been very thorough. I am not sure that the construction of a perfected plot has been at any period within my power. But the novelist has other aims than the elucidation of his plot. He desires to make his readers so intimately acquainted with his characters that the creatures of his brain should be to them speaking, moving, living, human creatures. This he can never do unless he know those fictitious personages himself, and he can never know them unless he can live with them in the full reality of established intimacy. They must be with him as he lies down to sleep, and as he wakes from his dreams. He must learn to hate them and to love them. He must argue with them, quarrel with them, forgive them, and even submit to them. He must know of them whether they be cold-blooded or passionate, whether true or false, and how far true, and how far false. The depth and the breadth, and the narrowness and the shallowness of each should be clear to him. And, as here, in our outer world, we know that men and women change 鈥?become worse or better as temptation or conscience may guide them 鈥?so should these creations of his change, and every change should be noted by him. On the last day of each month recorded, every person in his novel should be a month older than on the first. If the would-be novelist have aptitudes that way, all this will come to him without much struggling 鈥?but if it do not come, I think he can only make novels of wood. Surely it was a grey horse that brought me! she[Pg 305] exclaimed, and in the next minute she recognized Lostwithiel's brougham, the same carriage in which she had been driven home through the rain upon that unforgotten night when his house sheltered her, when she saw his face for the first time. At this moment the boy covered with buttons entered. Suddenly, in the dim grey of the morning, the slumberous calm of summer changed to howling wind and tropical rain鈥攖orrential rain, that filled every gutter, and splashed from every housetop, and ran in wild cascades from every alley on the steep hillsides. The Campagna was one vast lake, illumined with flashes of lightning, and the thunder pealed and reverberated along the lofty parapets of the ruined aqueducts. The tall cypresses in the Pincian Gardens bent like saplings before that mighty wind, which seemed to howl and shriek its loudest as it came tearing down from the hill to whistle and rave among the housetops in the Piazza di Spagna. 2019最新国产高清不卡a_日韩ⅴa一本到免费视频_高清中文字曰本在线aⅴ Hours went by, she knew not how. Again and again Lostwithiel came to her door, and talked and entreated鈥擧eaven knows how tenderly鈥攚ith what deep contrition, with what fond pleading for pardon. But the dumb devil held her still. She wrapped herself in a sullen despair鈥攏ot anger, for anger is active. Hers was only a supine resistance. 鈥榃ell, all you ladies who are so much in love with him ought to be able to manage him,鈥?he said. 16 They fasted in the water thirty-five days; altogether forty-two days since they had left the garden. If you don't meet each other's emotional needs, you maybe heading for failure. These things can only be determinedby face-to-face contact. Only then can you tell if you'rereally "connecting."despite being medically healthy, dies a few shortmonths or even weeks after the death of the otherspouse? Food and shelter aren't enough. We need eachother, and we need love.