| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Recruit by Honore de Balzac: delicate line along which she might satisfy the exactions of this
mixed society, without humiliating the touchy pride of the parvenus,
or shocking that of her own friends.
Then about thirty-eight years of age, she still preserved, not the
fresh plump beauty which distinguishes the daughters of Lower
Normandy, but a fragile and, so to speak, aristocratic beauty. Her
features were delicate and refined, her figure supple and easy. When
she spoke, her pale face lighted and seemed to acquire fresh life. Her
large dark eyes were full of affability and kindness, and yet their
calm, religious expression seemed to say that the springs of her
existence were no longer in her.
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Breaking Point by Mary Roberts Rinehart: that she does. That she may, in time - Then, that's the reason
for this Johns Hopkins thing, is it?"
"That's the reason," David said stoutly. "She would wait for you.
She's that sort. I've known her all her life. She's as steady
as a rock. But she's been brought up to have a lot of things.
Walter Wheeler is well off. You do as I want you to; pack your
things and go to Baltimore. Bring Reynolds down here to look
after the work until I'm around again."
But Dick evaded the direct issue thus opened and followed another
line of thought.
"Of course you understand," he observed, after a renewal of his
The Breaking Point |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte: dazzled my eyes; I thought--Oh, it is daylight! But I was mistaken;
it was only candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come in. There
was a light in the dressing-table, and the door of the closet,
where, before going to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil,
stood open; I heard a rustling there. I asked, 'Sophie, what are
you doing?' No one answered; but a form emerged from the closet; it
took the light, held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent
from the portmanteau. 'Sophie! Sophie!' I again cried: and still
it was silent. I had risen up in bed, I bent forward: first
surprise, then bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept
cold through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was
Jane Eyre |
