EASTSIDER PETER MAAS In recent years, his creative output has been reduced somewhat, as the result of the severe wounds he sustained in June, 1968, when a deranged woman shot him in his office. Nevertheless, he continues to mount gallery exhibitions, write books and paint portraits. The Whitney Museum (75th St. at Madison Ave.) will have a show of his portraits in December. Well鈥攁 promise鈥擨 can't have you break your word. Don't you stay late, mind. Not one minute after ten o'clock; do you mind, Rhoda? Perhaps I am scarcely the best judge of that, am I? returned Algernon, with that childlike raising of the eyebrows which gave so winning an expression to his face. "After three months of misery among them, I began to suffer many things from many medicine-men, and was nothing better, but rather grew worse. I had nauseous medicines in large doses from one, and small doses from another, with exactly the same results. I was drenched, and steamed, and packed, and baked, externally, and almost poisoned internally with draughts of water which, to say the least, were unclean; but all to no purpose. They blew upon me, and then whistled. They pressed their extended fingers with all their strength into me. They put their forefingers doubled into my mouth, and spouted water from their own mouths into mine. They applied pieces of lighted touchwood to my flesh in many places. They then placed me on a litter made of saplings, and I was carried by four men into the woods, and as I observed one Indian carrying fire, another an axe, and a third dry wood, I could not but conjecture that they had arrived at the humane conclusion of relieving me of all pain forever. When we had advanced a short distance into the woods, they laid me on a clear spot and kindled a fire against my back. Then the medicine-men began to scarify my flesh with blunt instruments. 鈥淥f some kinds of music, yes, Miss Skinner, but you know I never did like modern music.鈥? 超碰97免费人妻,亚洲第一成年网站视频,老司机亚洲精品视频 A: For years I've been telling myself that I was going to try a Vanity Fair type of novel about New York, and I think I should probably try to make myself tackle that next. I've debated whether to make it fiction or nonfiction. My fiction writing has been confined to one short story that I did for Esquire. And I was surprised that it was harder than I thought to write fiction. I thought that I could sit down on a Sunday afternoon and knock out a short story, because you could make things up. CHAPTER XIII Director of the New York City Opera Martin bowed. 鈥淎 la v?tre, monsieur!鈥? No, admitted Aron. "I came from Earth with the last space fleet and escaped in a lifeboat. Why?"