From New York Times bestselling author Joe Abercrombie comes the first book in a new blockbuster fantasy trilogy where the age of the machine dawns, but the age of magic refuses to die.The chimneys of industry rise over Adua and the world seethes with new opportunities. But old scores run deep as ever.On the blood-soaked borders of Angland, Leo dan Brock struggles to win fame on the battlefield, and defeat the marauding armies of Stour Nightfall. He hopes for help from the crown. But King Jezal's son, the feckless Prince Orso, is a man who specializes in disappointments.Savine dan Glokta - socialite, investor, and daughter of the most feared man in the Union - plans to claw her way to the top of the slag-heap of society by any means necessary. But the slums boil over with a rage that all the money in the world cannot control.The age of the machine dawns, but the age of magic refuses to die. With the help of the mad hillwoman Isern-i-Phail, Rikke struggles to control the blessing, or the curse, of the Long Eye. Glimpsing the future is one thing, but with the guiding hand of the First of the Magi still pulling the strings, changing it will be quite another...Available September 17, 2019 from Hachette Audio as a digital download, and in Print and Ebook from Orbit. Download: -a-little-hatred -little-hatred-download -joe-abercrombie-novel-1.aspx -Little-Hatred-Audiobook/1478916591?qid=1566852908&sr=1-1&pf_rd_p=e81b7c27-6880-467a-b5a7-13cef5d729fe&pf_rd_r=B4AFYGAJ5XHCTHVCQ2F4&ref=a_search_c3_lProduct_1_1 -hatred/394562 -hatred-a -Abercrombie/A-Little-Hatred -little-hatred-4 _Abercrombie_A_Little_Hatred?id=AQAAAEAsHzhfBM -little-hatred/id1477711689Check out our other great titles and more at: us at:twitter.com/HachetteAudiowww.tumblr.com/blog/hachetteaudiowww.facebook.com/HachetteAudio
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So they had given the gift of themselves, each to the youth withwhom she had the most subtle and intimate arguments. The arguments,the discussions were the great thing: the love-making and connexionwere only a sort of primitive reversion and a bit of ananti-climax. One was less in love with the boy afterwards, and alittle inclined to hate him, as if he had trespassed on one'sprivacy and inner freedom. For, of course, being a girl, one'swhole dignity and meaning in life consisted in the achievement ofan absolute, a perfect, a pure and noble freedom. What else did agirl's life mean? To shake off the old and sordid connexions andsubjections.
So the girls were 'free', and went back to Dresden, and theirmusic, and the university and the young men. They loved theirrespective young men, and their respective young men loved themwith all the passion of mental attraction. All the wonderful thingsthe young men thought and expressed and wrote, they thought andexpressed and wrote for the young women. Connie's young man wasmusical, Hilda's was technical. But they simply lived for theiryoung women. In their minds and their mental excitements, that is.Somewhere else they were a little rebuffed, though they did notknow it.
Silence fell. The four men smoked. And Connie sat there and putanother stitch in her sewing...Yes, she sat there! She had to sitmum. She had to be quiet as a mouse, not to interfere with theimmensely important speculations of these highly-mental gentlemen.But she had to be there. They didn't get on so well without her;their ideas didn't flow so freely. Clifford was much more hedgy andnervous, he got cold feet much quicker in Connie's absence, and thetalk didn't run. Tommy Dukes came off best; he was a littleinspired by her presence. Hammond she didn't really like; he seemedso selfish in a mental way. And Charles May, though she likedsomething about him, seemed a little distasteful and messy, inspite of his stars.
'No, you'd better come along in case she sticks. The engineisn't really strong enough for the uphill work.' The man glancedround for his dog...a thoughtful glance. The spaniel looked at himand faintly moved its tail. A little smile, mocking or teasing her,yet gentle, came into his eyes for a moment, then faded away, andhis face was expressionless. They went fairly quickly down theslope, the man with his hand on the rail of the chair, steadyingit. He looked like a free soldier rather than a servant. Andsomething about him reminded Connie of Tommy Dukes.
Little gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up thecelandines at the wood's edge, under the hazel-rods, they spangledout bright and yellow. And the wood was still, stiller, but yetgusty with crossing sun. The first windflowers were out, and allthe wood seemed pale with the pallor of endless little anemones,sprinkling the shaken floor. 'The world has grown pale with thybreath.' But it was the breath of Persephone, this time; she wasout of hell on a cold morning. Cold breaths of wind came, andoverhead there was an anger of entangled wind caught among thetwigs. It, too, was caught and trying to tear itself free, thewind, like Absalom. How cold the anemones looked, bobbing theirnaked white shoulders over crinoline skirts of green. But theystood it. A few first bleached little primroses too, by the path,and yellow buds unfolding themselves.
To Connie, Clifford seemed to be coming out in his true colours:a little vulgar, a little common, and uninspired; rather fat. IvyBolton's tricks and humble bossiness were also only tootransparent. But Connie did wonder at the genuine thrill which thewoman got out of Clifford. To say she was in love with him would beputting it wrongly. She was thrilled by her contact with a man ofthe upper class, this titled gentleman, this author who could writebooks and poems, and whose photograph appeared in the illustratednewspapers. She was thrilled to a weird passion. And his'educating' her roused in her a passion of excitement and responsemuch deeper than any love affair could have done. In truth, thevery fact that there could be no love affair left her freeto thrill to her very marrow with this other passion, the peculiarpassion of knowing, knowing as he knew.
Among other monstrosities in this lumber room was a largishblackjapanned box, excellently and ingeniously made some sixty orseventy years ago, and fitted with every imaginable object. On topwas a concentrated toilet set: brushes, bottles, mirrors, combs,boxes, even three beautiful little razors in safety sheaths,shaving-bowl and all. Underneath came a sort of escritoireoutfit: blotters, pens, ink-bottles, paper, envelopes, memorandumbooks: and then a perfect sewing-outfit, with three different sizedscissors, thimbles, needles, silks and cottons, darning egg, all ofthe very best quality and perfectly finished. Then there was alittle medicine store, with bottles labelled Laudanum, Tincture ofMyrrh, Ess. Cloves and so on: but empty. Everything was perfectlynew, and the whole thing, when shut up, was as big as a small, butfat weekend bag. And inside, it fitted together like a puzzle. Thebottles could not possibly have spilled: there wasn't room.
'Then came Bertha Coutts. They'd lived next door to us when Iwas a little lad, so I knew 'em all right. And they were common.Well, Bertha went away to some place or other in Birmingham; shesaid, as a lady's companion; everybody else said, as a waitress orsomething in a hotel. Anyhow just when I was more than fed up withthat other girl, when I was twenty-one, back comes Bertha, withairs and graces and smart clothes and a sort of bloom on her: asort of sensual bloom that you'd see sometimes on a woman, or on atrolly. Well, I was in a state of murder. I chucked up my job atButterley because I thought I was a weed, clerking there: and I goton as overhead blacksmith at Tevershall: shoeing horses mostly. Ithad been my dad's job, and I'd always been with him. It was a job Iliked: handling horses: and it came natural to me. So I stoppedtalking "fine", as they call it, talking proper English, and wentback to talking broad. I still read books, at home: but Iblacksmithed and had a pony-trap of my own, and was My LordDuckfoot. My dad left me three hundred pounds when he died. So Itook on with Bertha, and I was glad she was common. I wanted her tobe common. I wanted to be common myself. Well, I married her, andshe wasn't bad. Those other "pure" women had nearly taken all theballs out of me, but she was all right that way. She wanted me, andmade no bones about it. And I was as pleased as punch. That waswhat I wanted: a woman who wanted me to fuck her. So Ifucked her like a good un. And I think she despised me a bit, forbeing so pleased about it, and bringin' her her breakfast in bedsometimes. She sort of let things go, didn't get me a proper dinnerwhen I came home from work, and if I said anything, flew out at me.And I flew back, hammer and tongs. She flung a cup at me and I tookher by the scruff of the neck and squeezed the life out of her.That sort of thing! But she treated me with insolence. And she gotso's she'd never have me when I wanted her: never. Always put meoff, brutal as you like. And then when she'd put me right off, andI didn't want her, she'd come all lovey-dovey, and get me. And Ialways went. But when I had her, she'd never come off when I did.Never! She'd just wait. If I kept back for half an hour, she'd keepback longer. And when I'd come and really finished, then she'dstart on her own account, and I had to stop inside her till shebrought herself off, wriggling and shouting, she'd clutch clutchwith herself down there, an' then she'd come off, fair in ecstasy.And then she'd say: That was lovely! Gradually I got sick of it:and she got worse. She sort of got harder and harder to bring off,and she'd sort of tear at me down there, as if it was a beaktearing at me. By God, you think a woman's soft down there, like afig. But I tell you the old rampers have beaks between their legs,and they tear at you with it till you're sick. Self! Self! Self!all self! tearing and shouting! They talk about men's selfishness,but I doubt if it can ever touch a woman's blind beakishness, onceshe's gone that way. Like an old trull! And she couldn't help it. Itold her about it, I told her how I hated it. And she'd even try.She'd try to lie still and let me work the business. She'dtry. But it was no good. She got no feeling off it, from myworking. She had to work the thing herself, grind her own coffee.And it came back on her like a raving necessity, she had to letherself go, and tear, tear, tear, as if she had no sensation in herexcept in the top of her beak, the very outside top tip, thatrubbed and tore. That's how old whores used to be, so men used tosay. It was a low kind of self-will in her, a raving sort ofself-will: like in a woman who drinks. Well in the end I couldn'tstand it. We slept apart. She herself had started it, in her boutswhen she wanted to be clear of me, when she said I bossed her. Shehad started having a room for herself. But the time came when Iwouldn't have her coming to my room. I wouldn't. 2b1af7f3a8