No sentence-level conversations. On a shelf near the back of the shop Mrs. Whitaker found a tarnished old silver container with a long spout.
“Sixty-five pee, dear,” said the woman, picking up the silver object, staring at it.
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There were words and symbols traced elegantly along the length of the blade. No sentence-level conversations. No paragraph-level conversations.
No paragraph-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. On Wednesday Mrs. Whitaker stayed in all day. No sentence-level conversations.
It was a sword, its blade almost four feet long.
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Still Mrs. Whitaker did not give him the Holy Grail. No sentence-level conversations.
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Galaad picked up his teacup apologetically. No sentence-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. “Nice for her, maybe,” said the lady on the till, “But some of us were meant to be in Heathfield this afternoon.” No sentence-level conversations.
No sentence-level conversations. The woman on the till, who had blue-rinsed gray hair and blue spectacles that went up into diamante points, shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. Though Gaiman goes to great lengths to show how typical and boring her life seems from the outside, he also takes great care with the peace and security with which she approaches it. This shows that the Holy Grail is really important to her because she manage to put next to her dead husband. No paragraph-level conversations.
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No paragraph-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. You are here: Home | Cool Stuff | Short Stories. Today it was Mrs. Greenberg’s turn to visit Mrs. Whitaker.
And the narration was excellent, too, as usual.A unique little story of a woman buying objects in a thrift store and then visitors showing up seeking that object. No sentence-level conversations.
Mrs. Whitaker told him about her late husband, Henry; and how the life insurance had paid the house off; and how she had all these things, but no one really to leave them to, no one but Ronald really and his wife only liked modern things. No paragraph-level conversations. No paragraph-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. This could be an allusion too because they mentioned a king that we have not talk about in class. No sentence-level conversations. He was giving the neighborhood children rides on Grizzel’s back, up and down the street. No paragraph-level conversations. Today it was Mrs. Greenberg’s turn to visit Mrs. Whitaker. Now, give me that, and I’ll wrap it up for you.”
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No sentence-level conversations. Thanks to our presenting sponsor Audible. No sentence-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. No paragraph-level conversations. Mrs. Whitaker put the ruby fruit down on her kitchen table.
No paragraph-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. Then she polished it with metal polish until it gleamed, and she put it on the mantelpiece in her parlor, where it sat between a small soulful china basset hound and a photograph of her late husband, Henry, on the beach at Frinton in 1953. One might read this and think, perhaps its alright that I’ve never climbed Mount Everest or battled a dragon. No sentence-level conversations. No paragraph-level conversations. No paragraph-level conversations. No paragraph-level conversations. No paragraph-level conversations. No paragraph-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. It’s just right, between the dog and the photograph of my Henry.” Mrs. Whitaker had a number of ornamental shells in her bedroom. It is produced by Symphony Space and WNYC RADIO and distributed by Public Radio International. No paragraph-level conversations.
No paragraph-level conversations. No sentence-level conversations. It had been a gift from her sister, Ethel, who had died in 1983.
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It contained photographs of her husband, Wallace, and her two daughters.
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She made Galaad a cup of tea, then she took him into the parlor. No sentence-level conversations. Share. Then the horse and the knight trotted off down Hawthorne Crescent. No sentence-level conversations.
It was an apple, apparently carved from a single ruby, on an amber stem. No sentence-level conversations. It was soft to the touch—deceptively so: Her fingers bruised it, and ruby-colored juice from the apple ran down Mrs. Whitaker’s hand. This short story by Neil Gaiman was sweet- no more, no less. Mrs. Whitaker lives a quiet peaceful life, so her reaction to a knight requesting this holy relic is surprisingly subdued.
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