The cronin china company minerva oh

ON ST. GEORGE’S SPEAR
Ch. 18
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This takes place in an alternate universe described here.
Credit to u/spacepaladin15 for the original universe :)
Memory Transcript Subject: Com. Tomas Cardóna, Commander of the ENS Cupertino, member of the Dominican Order of Scientists
Date [standardized human time]: August 22, 2178
My promotion ceremony was purely for practical reasons, and everyone knew it. My mission was not to be conducted by anyone with “undue authority” or some other bureaucratic nonsense that always seems to find its way into everything.
However, before the government could get a handle on everything, the whole HHE found out about the Arxur's enslavement, and probable consumption of, the crew and descendants of the ENS St. Jeanne de Chantal. It was decided then, that “Squadron 12” would take upon itself a new, grim, task: Providing a secluded home for humanity to develop in times of peace, or flee to if the war goes south.
The former EES vessels were the premier ships for the job, so the Cupertino was chosen as we have been the most recent one to complete a mission successfully, and thus have the most experienced crew. It doesn’t hurt that the Cupertino has been significantly refitted into more of a light frigate than a science vessel, but I digress.
The Cupertino was to have an escort of around 8 corvettes and 2 frigates. By far the heaviest formation I have ever been in willingly. We received orders to travel to Ross 128, again, to stage our transport to our new home. Before we left Earth orbit, however, a top-secret set of orders was patched to my command desk. We were to make a detour to the Centauri system. Further orders would be given in person there.
So be it. I ordered a detour to Proxima. If they wanted to drag this out unnecessarily, well, two can play that game. Then, as if it was expecting us, an outdated museum piece of a “frigate” left orbit and started to charge toward us.
“ENS Cupertino*, this is the* ENS Philomena with permission to dock. Slow down and prepare for docking procedures.”
The Philomena?! That vessel had its heyday during the 3rd Chinese War! It still uses nuclear thermal rockets for crying out loud. We could stay at 40% power and still outrun them. However, it would be bad form just to leave another friendly craft in the dust.
I went to the docking bay to give the idiot in charge of the Philomena a piece of my mind. There is no way I am letting them tag along on an interstellar mission. That would be stupid on so many levels … No. I’m not even going to think about it.
Before I realized it, I was in the docking bay, impatiently waiting for the Philomena to maneuver around the clamps and towards the docking seal with all the tender grace of a buffering video. Markov was his usual cheery self, which is to say he showed all the emotion of a cliff face. A squad of Marines of the order of St. Sebastian was formed on either side of the seal, to show our new capabilities to the rest of the world, as well as to assure ourselves that we are ready for whatever we might find past known space. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be another genocidal maniac empire.
The door opened to a Captain standing in the doorway. He spoke before I could voice some decidedly not-Christian thoughts about his arrival.
“Are you Commander Cardóna?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I want to talk to you about a classified topic.”
Not again.
“Very well. Follow me to the ready room. Markov, prepare the flotilla.”
Markov nodded, and the Captain followed me to a secondary room, as the ready room was near the bridge, and the docking bay was not.
As soon as the door closed, he locked the door.
“I’m not going to beat around the bush, Commander. You’re going to be transporting Aliens. The Sheep, Kangas, and Spikies had a few volunteers join us. We thought they might be able to send them to help the fleet around Treshaan with their advanced knowledge of galactic political borders and possibly steer you clear of other hostiles.”
“The who sent volunteers?”
“Oh, you probably know them by their official names. Venlil, Yotul, and Go-jid. Trust me, there’s a reason why the Yotul have been nicknamed ‘Kangas’, and it’s not just because they look vaguely similar.”
“Aren’t those aliens deathly afraid of us? How would we be able to accommodate them? We have already lost part of our habitable area to weapons systems, they would have no choice but to be crammed in with us!” I may have said that with a bit more vigor than I intended, but I wasn’t about to cause a diplomatic incident by having an alien die of fright.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Frankly, sir, I am shocked that you rose to such a rank without learning the power of the rumor mill.”
“Fair point. To address your concerns, the volunteers are all in the process of converting. To assist them, a cohort of priests, deacons, and other clergy will be helping them in their path. They have performed a miracle over the past few months. I don’t know the details, but the aliens showed “positive reactions” only 4 weeks into their rehabilitation.”
“Sir, we only have the spare rooms for 30, counting turning those rooms into bunks.”
“That’s great! As we have 32, including the clergy, on the Philomena awaiting transfer, and I doubt that your priest aboard would protest sharing his room. Fortunately for all involved, you will only be transporting them to Treshaan where they will be distributed among the fleet already stationed there.”
I saluted the Captain and went to the Chapel. There, I got down on my knees and asked, [No one in particular] what I did wrong to warrant this punishment. After a half-hour of rethinking every life choice I made up until this point, I left feeling less despair and more resignation than when I entered.
I always hated being the taxi for my family.
Memory Transcript Subject: Chief Hunter Slasaan, Arxur Dominion Sector Fleet
Date [standardized human time]: June 21, 2178
I rushed the Hunter into a small shuttle that would take me to my command ship, which I inherited from my predecessor, Chief Hinter Shaza. That old hag wouldn't be able to comprehend that there are another sapient species in the galaxy, so I guess it was for the best when she suffered that “accident”.
The Hunter seemed to be in awe of the size of the ship. I couldn’t blame her. The ship was large to such an unreasonable degree that some other Chief Hunters tried to scrap the ship due to its “impracticality” in combat situations. Another theory from the formerly-alive Chief Isif that acted as if prey could put up meaningful resistance.
After letting her tour the ship, I tried to get a sizeable fleet behind me if this new species was not open to negotiations. However, as was to be predicted, the other Chief Hunters and houses were dragging their tails as much as they could. If I didn’t know any better, I would have called them Mazic-Boned, but that would only lead to my death.
After a [week] or two, I had finally gathered my task force that would initiate official contact. I was just about to go crazy being on a ship with this many other people at once. Was this why Shaza was so weird? Did she like to keep company like that? Was she hiding defective Arxur on this ship?
Shaking that train of thought from my head, I walked onto the bridge and took everything in. If anything screamed ‘Most powerful Arxur under the Prophet-Descendant,’ this is it. As the task force started our final leg toward Treshaan, I couldn’t help but feel optimistic about negotiations with this new species.

This is the best tl;dr I could make, original reduced by 37%. (I'm a bot)

BEIJING - China's first domestically made passenger jet flew its maiden commercial flight on Sunday, as China looks to compete with industry giants such as Boeing and Airbus in the global aircraft market.
The C919 plane, built by the Commercial Aviation Corporation of China, carried about 130 passengers on the flight, according to state-owned newspaper China Daily.
The flight was operated by state-owned China Eastern Airlines and the side of the plane was emblazoned with the words: "The World's First C919.".
The inaugural flight comes as COMAC looks to break into the single-aisle jet market in a direct challenge to Airbus and Boeing.
The company plans to build 150 C919 planes each year for the next five years, according to earlier state media reports.
Over 1,200 C919 jetliners have been ordered, COMAC says, with China Eastern Airlines under contract to buy five of them.

Summary Source FAQ Feedback Top keywords: C919^#1 China^#2 flight^#3 jet^#4 year^#5
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PODCAST: https://ayearofwarandpeace.podbean.com/e/ep1572-hail-and-farewell-george-moore-vale-chapter-112/
PROMPTS: George does not care about you, whatsoever.
Today's Reading, via Project Gutenberg:
Borde could not enlighten him on that point, and I suggested that he should make application to the publisher of his Prayer-Book and get his money back. There is nobody. I said, like him. He is more wonderful than anything in literature. I prefer him to Sancho who was untroubled with a conscience and never thought of running to the Bishop of Toledo. All the same he is not without the shrewdness of his ancestors, and got the better of Archbishop Walsh, and for the last five years Vincent O'Brien has been beating time, and will beat it till the end of his life; and he will be succeeded by others, for Edward has, by deed, saved the Italian contrapuntalists till time everlasting from competition with modern composers. He certainly has gotten the better of Walsh. And I thought of a picture-gallery in Dublin with nothing in it but Botticelli and his school, and myself declaring that all painting that had been done since had no interest for me.... A smile began to spread over my face, for the story that was coming into my mind seemed oh! so humorous, so like Ireland, so like Edward, that I began to tell myself again the delightful story of the unrefined ears that, weary of erudite music, had left the cathedral and sought instinctively modern tunes and women's voices, and as these were to be found in Westland Row the church was soon overflowing with a happy congregation. But in a little while the collections grew scantier. This time it couldn't be Palestrina, and all kinds of reasons were adduced. At last the truth could no longer be denied—the professional Catholics of Merrion Square had been driven out of Westland Row by the searching smells of dirty clothes, and had gone away to the University Church in Stephen's Green. So if it weren't Palestrina directly it was Palestrina indirectly, and the brows of the priests began to knit when Edward Martyn's name was mentioned. Them fal-de-dals is well enough on the Continent, in Paris, where there is no faith, was the opinion of an important ecclesiastic. But we don't want them here, murmured a second ecclesiastic. All this counterpoint may make a very pretty background for Mr Martyn's prayers, but what about the poor people's? Good composer or bad composer, there is no congregation in him, said a third. There's too much congregation, put in the first, but not the kind we want! The second ecclesiastic took snuff, and the group were of opinion that steps should be taken to persuade dear Edward to make good their losses. The priests in Marlborough Street sympathised with the priests of Westland Row, and told them that they were so heavily out of pocket that Mr Martyn had agreed to do something for them. It seemed to the Westland Row priests that if Mr Martyn were making good the losses of the priests of the pro-Cathedral, he should make good their losses. It was natural that they should think so, and to acquit himself of all responsibility Edward no doubt consulted the best theologians on the subject, and I think that they assured him that he is not responsible for indirect losses. If he were, his whole fortune would not suffice. He was, of course, very sorry if a sudden influx of poor people had caused a falling-off in the collections of Westland Row, for he knew that the priests needed the money very much to pay for the new decorations, and to help them he wrote an article in the Independent praising the new blue ceiling, which seemed, so he wrote, a worthy canopy for the soaring strains of Palestrina.
Unfortunately rubbing salt into the wound, I said. A story that will amuse Dujardin and it will be great fun telling him in the shady garden at Fontainebleau how Edward, anxious to do something for his church, had succeeded in emptying two. All the way down the alleys he will wonder how Edward could have ever looked upon Palestrina's masses as religious music. The only music he will say, in which religious emotion transpires is plain-chant. Huysmans says that the Tantum Ergo or the Dies Irae, one or the other, reminds him of a soul being dragged out of purgatory, and it is possible that it does; but a plain-chant tune arranged in eight-part counterpoint cannot remind one of anything very terrible. Dujardin knows that Palestrina was a priest, and he will say: That fact deceived your friend, just as the fact of finding the Adeste Fideles among the plain-chant tunes deceived him. For of course I shall tell Dujardin that story too. It is too good to be missed. He is wonderful, Dujardin! I shall cry out in one of the sinuous alleys. There never was anybody like him! And I will tell him more soul-revealing anecdotes. I will say: Dujardin, listen. One evening he contended that the great duet at the end of Siegfried reminded him of mass by Palestrina. Dujardin will laugh, and, excited by his laughter, I will try to explain to him that what Edward sees is that Palestrina took a plain chant tune and gave fragments of it to the different voices, and in his mind these become confused with the motives of The Ring. You see, Dujardin, the essential always escapes him—the intention of the writer is hidden from him. I am beginning to understand your friend. He has, let us suppose, a musical ear that allows him to take pleasure in the music; but a musical ear will not help him to follow Wagner's idea—how, in a transport of sexual emotion, a young man and a young woman on a mountain-side awaken to the beauty of the life of the world. Dujardin's appreciations will provoke me, and I will say: Dujardin, you shouldn't be so appreciative. If I were telling you of a play I had written, it would be delightful to watch my idea dawning upon your consciousness; but I am telling you of a real man, and one that I shall never to able to get into literature. He will answer: We invent nothing; we can but perceive. And then, exhilarated, carried beyond myself, I will say: Dujardin, I will tell you something still more wonderful than the last gaffe. II gaffe dans les Quat'z Arts. He admires Ibsen, but you'd never guess the reason why—because he is very like Racine; both of them, he says, are classical writers. And do you know how he arrived at that point? Because nobody is killed on the stage in Racine or in Ibsen. He does not see that the intention of Racine is to represent men and women out of time and out of space, unconditioned by environment, and that the very first principle of Ibsen's art is the relation of his characters to their environment. In many passages he merely dramatises Darwin. There never was anybody so interesting as dear Edward, and there never will be anybody like him in literature ... I will explain why presently, but I must first tell you another anecdote. I went to see him one night, and he told me that the theme of the play he was writing was a man who had married a woman because he had lost faith in himself; the man did not know, however, that the woman had married him for the same reason, and the two of them were thinking—I have forgotten what they were thinking, but I remember Edward saying: I should like to suggest hopelessness. I urged many phrases, but he said: It isn't a phrase I want, but an actual thing. I was thinking of a broken anchor—that surely is a symbol of hopelessness. Yes, I said, no doubt, but how are you going to get a broken anchor into a drawing-room? I don't write about drawing-rooms. Well, living-rooms. It isn't likely that they would buy a broken anchor and put it up by the coal-scuttle.
There's that against it, he answered. If you could suggest anything better—What do you think of a library in which there is nothing but unacted plays? The characters could say, when there was nothing for them to do on the stage, that they were going to the library to read, and the library would have the advantage of reminding everybody of the garret in the Wild Duck. A very cruel answer, my friend, Dujardin will say, and I will tell him that I can't help seeing in Edward something beyond Shakespeare or Balzac. Now, tell me, which of these anecdotes I have told you is the most humorous? He will not answer my question, but a certain thoughtfulness will begin to settle in his face, and he will say: Everything with him is accidental, and when his memory fails him he falls into another mistake, and he amuses you because it is impossible for you to anticipate his next mistake. You know there is going to be one; there must be one, for he sees things separately rather than relatively. I am beginning to understand your friend.
You are, you are; you are doing splendidly. But you haven't told me, Dujardin, which anecdote you prefer. Stay, there is another one. Perhaps this one will help you to a still better understanding. When he brought The Heather Field and Yeats's play The Countess Cathleen to Dublin for performance, a great trouble of conscience awakened suddenly in him, and a few days before the performance he went to a theologian to ask him if The Countess Cathleen were a heretical work, and, if it were would Almighty God hold him responsible for the performance? But he couldn't withdraw Yeats's play without withdrawing his own, and it appears that he breathed a sigh of relief when a common friend referred the whole matter to two other theologians, and as these gave their consent Edward allowed the plays to go on; but Cardinal Logue intervened, and wrote a letter to the papers to say that the play seemed to him unfit for Catholic ears, and Edward would have withdrawn the plays if the Cardinal hadn't admitted in his letter that he had judged the play by certain extracts only.
He wishes to act rightly, but has little faith in himself; and what makes him so amusing is that he needs advice in aesthetics as well as in morals. We are, I said, Dujardin, at the roots of conscience. And I began to ponder the question what would happen to Edward if we lived in a world in which aesthetics ruled: I should be where Bishop Healy is, and he would be a thin, small voice crying in the wilderness—an amusing subject of meditation, from which I awoke suddenly.
I wonder how Dujardin is getting on with his Biblical studies? Last year he was calling into question the authorship of the Romans—a most eccentric view; and, remembering how weakly I had answered him, I took the Bible from the table and began to read the Epistle with a view to furnishing myself with arguments wherewith to confute him. My Bible opened at the ninth chapter, and I said: Why, here is the authority for the Countess Cathleen's sacrifice which Edward's theologian deemed untheological. It will be great fun to poke Edward up with St Paul, and on my way to Lincoln Place I thought how I might lead the conversation to The Countess Cathleen.
📷
A few minutes afterwards a light appeared on the staircase and the door slowly opened.
Come in, Siegfried, though you were off the key.
Well, my dear friend, it is a difficult matter to whistle above two trams passing simultaneously and six people jabbering round a public-house, to say nothing of a jarvey or two, and you perhaps dozing in your armchair, as your habit often is. You won't open to anything else except a motive from The Ring; and I stumbled up the stairs in front of Edward, who followed with a candle.
Wait a moment; let me go first and I'll turn up the gas.
You aren't sitting in the dark, are you?
No, but I read better by candle-light, and he blew out the candles in the tin candelabrum that he had made for himself. He is original even in his candelabrum; no one before him had ever thought of a caridelabrum in tin, and I fell to admiring his appearance more carefully than perhaps I had ever done before, so monumental did he seem lying on the little sofa sheltered from daughts by a screen, a shawl about his shoulders. His churchwarden was drawing famously, and I noticed his great square hands with strong fingers and square nails pared closely away, and as heretofore I admired the curve of the great belly, the thickness of the thighs, the length and breadth and the width of his foot hanging over the edge of the sofa, the apoplectic neck falling into great rolls of flesh, the humid eyes, the skull covered with short stubbly hair. I looked round the rooms and they seemed part of himself: the old green wallpaper on which he pins reproductions of the Italian masters. And I longed to peep once more into the bare bedroom into which he goes to fetch bottles of Apollinaris. Always original! Is there another man in this world whose income is two thousand a year, and who sleeps in a bare bedroom, without dressing-room, or bathroom, or servant in the house to brush his clothes, and who has to go to the baker's for his breakfast?
We had been talking for some time of the Gaelic League, and from Hyde it was easy to pass to Yeats and his plays.
His best play is The Countess Cathleen.
The Countess Cathleen is only a sketch.
But what I never could understand, Edward, was why you and the Cardinal could have had any doubts as to the orthodoxy of The Countess Cathleen.
What, a woman that sells her own soul in order to save the souls of others!
I suppose your theologian objected—
Of course he objected.
He cannot have read St Paul.
What do you mean?
He can't have read St Paul, or else he is prepared to throw over St Paul.
Mon ami Moore, mon ami Moore.
The supernatural idealism of a man who would sell his soul to save the souls of others fills me with awe.
But it wasn't a man; it was the Countess Cathleen, and women are never idealists.
Not the saints?
His face grew solemn at once.
If you give me the Epistles I will read the passage to you. And it was great fun to go to the bookshelves and read: I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Ghost, that I have great heaviness and continual sorrow in my heart. For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh.
Edward's face grew more and more solemn, and I wondered of what he was thinking.
Paul is a very difficult and a very obscure writer, and I think the Church is quite right not to encourage the reading of the Epistles, especially without comments.
Then you do think there is something in the passage I have read?
After looking down his dignified nose for a long time, he said:
Of course, the Church has an explanation. All the same, it's very odd that St Paul should have said such a thing—very odd.
There is no doubt that I owe a great deal of my happiness to Edward; all my life long he has been exquisite entertainment. And I fell to thinking that Nature was very cruel to have led me, like Moses, within sight of the Promised Land. A story would be necessary to bring Edward into literature, and it would be impossible to devise an action of which he should be a part. The sex of a woman is odious to him, and a man with two thousand a year does not rob nor steal, and he is so uninterested in his fellow-men that he has never an ill word to say about anybody. John Eglinton is a little thing; AE is a soul that few will understand; but Edward is universal—more universal than Yeats, than myself, than any of us, but for lack of a story I shall not be able to give him the immortality in literature which he seeks in sacraments. Shakespeare always took his stories from some other people. Turgenev's portrait of him would be thin, poor, and evasive, and Balzac would give us the portrait of a mere fool. And Edward is not a fool. As I understand him he is a temperament without a rudder; all he has to rely upon is his memory, which isn't a very good one, and so he tumbles from one mistake into another. My God! it is a terrible thing to happen to one, to understand a man better than he understands himself, and to be powerless to help him. If I had been able to undo his faith I should have raised him to the level of Sir Horace Plunkett, but he resisted me; and perhaps he did well, for he came into the world seeing things separately rather than relatively, and had to be a Catholic. He is a born Catholic, and I remembered one of his confessions—a partial confession, but a confession: If you had been brought up as strictly as I have been—I don't think he ever finished the sentence; he often leaves sentences unfinished, as if he fears to think things out. The end of the sentence should run: You would not dare to think independently. He thinks that his severe bringing-up has robbed him of something. But the prisoner ends by liking his prison-house, and on another occasion he said: If it hadn't been for the Church, I don't know what would have happened to me.
My thoughts stopped, and when I awoke I was thinking of Hughes. Perhaps the link between Hughes and Edward was Loughrea Cathedral. He had shown me a photograph of some saints modelled by Hughes. Hughes is away in Paris, I said, modelling saints for Loughrea Cathedral. The last time I saw him was at Walter Osborne's funeral, and Walter's death set me thinking of the woman I had lost, and little by little all she had told me about herself floated up in my mind like something that I had read. I had never seen her father nor the Putney villa in which she had been brought up, but she had made me familiar with both through her pleasant mode of conversation, which was never to describe anything, but just to talk about things, dropping phrases here and there, and the phrases she dropped were so well chosen that the comfort of the villa, its pompous meals and numerous servants, its gardens and greenhouses, with stables and coach-house just behind, are as well known to me as the house that I am living in, better known in a way, for I see it through the eyes of the imagination ... clearer eyes than the physical eyes.
It does not seem to me that any one was ever more conscious of whence she had come and of what she had been; she seemed to be able to see herself as a child again, and to describe her childhood with her brother (they were nearly the same age) in the villa and in the villa's garden. I seemed to see them always as two rather staid children who were being constantly dressed by diligent nurses and taken out for long drives in the family carriage. They did not like these drives and used to hide in the garden; but their governess was sent to fetch them, and they were brought back. Her father did not like to have the horses kept waiting, and one day as Stella stood with him in the passage, she saw her mother come out of her bedroom beautifully dressed. Her father whispered something in his wife's ear, and he followed her into her bedroom. Stella remembered how the door closed behind them. In my telling, the incident seems to lose some of its point, but in Stella's relation it seemed to put her father and his wife before me and so clearly that I could not help asking her what answer her father would make were she to tell him that she had a lover. A smile hovered in her grave face. He would look embarrassed, she said, and wonder why I should have told him such a thing, and then I think he would go to the greenhouse, and when he returned he would talk to me about something quite different. I don't think that Stella ever told me about the people that came to their house, but people must have come to it, and as an example of how a few words can convey an environment I will quote her: I always wanted to talk about Rossetti, she said, and these seven words seem to me to tell better than any description the life of a girl living with a formal father in a Putney villa, longing for something, not knowing exactly what, and anxious to get away from home.... I think she told me she was eighteen or nineteen and had started painting before she met Florence at the house of one of her father's friends; a somewhat sore point this meeting was, for Florence was looked upon by Stella's father as something of a Bohemian. She was a painter, and knew all the Art classes and the fees that had to be paid, and led Stella into the world of studios and models and girl friends. She knew how to find studios and could plan out a journey abroad. Stella's imagination was captured, and even if her father had tried to offer opposition to her leaving home he could not have prevented her, for she was an heiress (her mother was dead and had left her a considerable income); but he did not try, and the two girls set up house together in Chelsea; they travelled in Italy and Spain; they had a cottage in the country; they painted pictures and exhibited their pictures in the same exhibitions; they gave dances in their studios and were attracted by this young man and the other; but Stella did not give herself to any one, because, as she admitted to me, she was afraid that a lover would interrupt the devotion which she intended to give to Art. But life is forever casting itself into new shapes and forms, and no sooner had she begun to express herself in Art than she met me. I was about to go to Ireland to preach a new gospel, and must have seemed a very impulsive and fantastic person to her, but were not impulsiveness and fantasy just the qualities that would appeal to her? And were not gravity and good sense the qualities that would appeal to me, determined as I was then to indulge myself in a little madness?
I could not have chosen a saner companion than Stella; my instinct had led me to her; but because one man's instinct is a little more clear than another's, it does not follow that he has called reason to his aid. It must be remembered always that the art of painting is as inveterate in me as the art of writing, and that I am never altogether myself when far away from the smell of oil paint. Stella could talk to one about painting, and all through that wonderful summer described in Salve our talk flowed on as delightfully as a breeze in Maytime, and as irresponsible, flashing thoughts going by and avowals perfumed with memories. Only in her garden did conversation fail us, for in her garden Stella could think only of her flowers, and it seemed an indiscretion to follow her as she went through the twilight gathering dead blooms or freeing plants from noxious insects. But she would have had me follow her, and I think was always a little grieved that I wasn't as interested in her garden as I was in her painting; and my absent-mindedness when I followed her often vexed her and my mistakes distressed her.
You are interested, she said, only in what I say about flowers and not in the flowers themselves. You like to hear me tell about Miss —— whose business in life is to grow carnations, because you already see her, dimly, perhaps, but still you see her in a story. Forget her and look at this Miss Shifner!
Yes, it is beautiful, but we can only admire the flowers that we notice when we are children, I answered. Dahlias, china roses, red and yellow tulips, tawny wallflowers, purple pansies, are never long out of my thoughts, and all the wonderful varieties of the iris, the beautiful blue satin and the cream, some shining like porcelain, even the common iris that grows about the moat.
But there were carnations in your mother's garden?
Yes, and I remember seeing them being tied with bass. But what did you say yesterday about carnations? That they were the—
She laughed and would not tell me, and when the twilight stooped over the high trees and the bats flitted and the garden was silent except when a fish leaped, I begged her to come away to the wild growths that I loved better than the flowers.
But the mallow and willow-weed are the only two that you recognise. How many times have I told you the difference between self-heal and tufted vetch?
I like cow parsley and wild hyacinths and—
You have forgotten the name. As well speak of a woman that you loved but whose name you had forgotten.
Well, if I have, I love trees better than you do, Stella. You pass under a fir unstirred by the mystery of its branches, and I wonder at you, for I am a tree worshipper, even as my ancestors, and am moved as they were by the dizzy height of a great silver fir. You like to paint trees, and I should like to paint flowers if I could paint; there we are set forth, you and I.
I have told in Salve that in Rathfarnham she found many motives for painting; the shape of the land and the spire above the straggling village appealed to me, but she was not altogether herself in these pictures. She would have liked the village away, for man and his dwellings did not form part of her conception of a landscape; large trees and a flight of clouds above the trees were her selection, and the almost unconscious life of kine wandering or sheep seeking the shelter of a tree.
Stella was a good walker, and we followed the long road leading from Rathfarnham up the hills, stopping to admire the long plain which we could see through the comely trees shooting out of the shelving hillside.
If I have beguiled you into a country where there are no artists and few men of letters, you can't say that I have not shown you comely trees. And now if you can walk two miles farther up this steep road I will show you a lovely prospect.
And I enjoyed her grave admiration of the old Queen Anne dwelling-house, its rough masonry, the yew hedges, the path along the hillside leading to the Druid altar and the coast-line sweeping in beautiful curves, but she did not like to hear me say that the drawing of the shore reminded her of Corot.
It is a sad affectation, she said, to speak of Nature reminding one of pictures.
Well, the outlines of Howth are beautiful, I answered, and the haze is incomparable. I should like to have spoken about a piece of sculpture, but for your sake, Stella, I refrain.
She was interested in things rather than ideas, and I remember her saying to me that things interest us only because we know that they are always slipping from us. A strange thing for a woman to say to her lover. She noticed all the changes of the seasons and loved them, and taught me to love them. She brought a lamb back from Rathfarnham, a poor forlorn thing that had run bleating so pitifully across the windy field that she had asked the shepherd where the ewe was, and he had answered that she had been killed overnight by a golf-ball. The lamb will be dead before morning, he added. And it was that March that the donkey produced a foal, a poor ragged thing that did not look as if it ever could be larger than a goat, but the donkey loved her foal.
Do you know the names of those two birds flying up and down the river?
They look to me like two large wrens with white waistcoats.
They are water-ouzels, she said.
The birds flew with rapid strokes of the wings, like kingfishers, alighting constantly on the river, on large mossy stones, and though we saw them plunge into the water, it was not to swim, but to run along the bottom in search of worms.
But do worms live under water?
The rooks were building, and a little while after a great scuffling was heard in one of the chimneys and a young jackdaw came down and soon became tamer than any bird I had ever seen, tamer than a parrot, and at the end of May the corncrake called from the meadow that summer had come again, and the kine wandered in deeper and deeper and deeper herbage. The days seemed never to end, and looking through the branches of the chestnut in which the fruit had not begun to show, we caught sight of a strange spectacle. Stella said, A lunar rainbow, and I wondered, never having heard of or seen such a thing before.
I shall never forget that rainbow, Stella, and am glad that we saw it together.
In every love story lovers reprove each other for lack of affection, and Stella had often sent me angry letters which caused me many heart-burnings and brought me out to her; in the garden there were reconciliations, we picked up the thread again, and the summer had passed before the reason of these quarrels became clear to me. One September evening Stella said she would accompany me to the gate, and we had not gone very far before I began to notice that she was quarrelling with me. She spoke of the loneliness of the Moat House, and I had answered that she had not been alone two evenings that week. She admitted my devotion. And if you admit that there has been no neglect—
She would not tell me, but there was something she was not satisfied with, and before we reached the end of the avenue she said, I don't think I can tell you. But on being pressed she said:
Well, you don't make love to me often enough.
And full of apologies I answered, Let me go back.
No, I can't have you back now, not after having spoken like that.
But she yielded to my invitation, and we returned to the house, and next morning I went back to Dublin a little dazed, a little shaken.
A few days after she went away to Italy to spend the winter and wrote me long letters, interesting me in herself, in the villagers, in the walks and the things that she saw in her walks, setting me sighing that she was away from me, or that I was not with her. And going to the window I would stand for a long time watching the hawthorns in their bleak wintry discontent, thinking how the sunlight fell into the Italian gardens, and caught the corner of the ruin she was sketching; and I let my fancy stray for a time unchecked. It would be wonderful to be in Italy with her, but—
I turned from the window suspicious, for there was a feeling at the back of my mind that with her return an anxiety would come into my life that I would willingly be without. She had told me she had refrained from a lover because she wished to keep all herself for her painting, and now she had taken to herself a lover. She was twenty years younger than I was, and at forty-six or thereabouts one begins to feel that one's time for love is over; one is consultant rather than practitioner. But it was impossible to dismiss the subject with a jest, and I found myself face to face with the question—If these twenty years were removed, would things be different? It seemed to me that the difficulty that had arisen would have been the same earlier in my life as it was now, and returning to the window I watched the hawthorns blowing under the cold grey Dublin sky.
The problem is set, I said, for the married, and every couple has to solve it in one way or another, but they have to solve it; they have to come to terms with love, especially the man, for whom it is a question of life and death. But how do they come to terms? And I thought of the different married people I knew. Which would be most likely to advise me—the man or the woman? It would be no use to seek advice; every case is different, I said. If anybody were to advise me it would be the man, for the problem is not so difficult for a woman. She can escape from love more easily than her lover or her husband; she can plead, and her many pleadings were considered, one by one, and how in married life the solution that seems to lovers so difficult is solved by marriage itself, by propinquity. But not always, not always. The question is one of extraordinary interest and importance; more marriages come to shipwreck, I am convinced, on this very question than upon any other. In the divorce cases published we read of incompatibility of temper and lack of mutual tastes, mere euphemisms that deceive nobody. The image of a shipwreck rose up in me naturally. She will return, and like a ship our love for each other will be beaten on these rocks and broken. We shall not be able to get out to sea. She will return, and when she returns her temperament will have to be adjusted to mine, else she will lose me altogether, for men have died of love, though Shakespeare says they haven't. Manet and Daudet—both died of love; and the somewhat absurd spectacle of a lover waiting for his mistress to return, and yet dreading her returning, was constantly before me.
It often seemed to me that it was my own weakness that created our embarrassment. A stronger man would have been able to find a way out, but I am not one that can shape and mould another according to my desire; and when she returned from Italy I found myself more helpless than ever, and I remember, and with shame, how, to avoid being alone with her, I would run down the entire length of a train, avoiding the empty carriages, crying Not here, not here! at last opening the door of one occupied by three or four people, who all looked as if they were bound for a long journey. I remember, too, how about this time I came with friends to see Stella, whether by accident or design, frankly I know not; I only know that I brought many friends to see her, thinking they would interest her.
If you don't care to come to see me without a chaperon, I would rather you didn't come at all, she said, humiliating me very deeply.
It seemed to me, I answered, blushing, that you would like to see ——, and I mentioned the name of the man who had accompanied me.
If I am cross sometimes it is because I don't see enough of you.
It seems to me that it was then that the resolve hardened in my heart to become her friend ... if she would allow me to become her friend. But in what words should I frame my request and my apology? All the time our life was becoming less amiable, until one evening I nipped the quarrel that was beginning, stopping suddenly at the end of the avenue.
It is better that we should understand each other. The plain truth is that I must cease to be your lover unless my life is to be sacrificed.
Cease to be my lover!
That is impossible, but a change comes into every love story.
The explanation stuttered on. I remember her saying: I don't wish you to sacrifice your life. I have forgotten the end of her sentence. She drew her hand suddenly across her eyes. I will conquer this obsession.
A man would have whined and cried and besought and worried his mistress out of her wits. Women behave better than we; only once did her feelings overcome her. She spoke to me of the deception that life is. Again we were standing by the gate at the end of the chestnut avenue, and I remembered her telling me how a few years ago life had seemed to hold out its hands to her; her painting and her youth created her enjoyment.
But now life seems to have shrivelled up, she said; only a little dust is left.
Nothing is changed, so far as you and I are concerned. We see each other just the same.
I am no more to you than any other woman.
She went away again to Italy to paint and returned to Ireland, and one day she came to see me, and remained talking for an hour. I have no memory of what we said to each other, but a very clear memory of our walk through Dublin over Carlisle Bridge and along the quays. I had accompanied her as far as the Phoenix Park gates, and at the corner of the Conyngham Road, just as I was bidding her goodbye, she said:
I want to ask your advice on a matter of importance to me.
And to me, for what is important to you is equally important to me.
I am thinking, she said, of being married.
At the news it seems to me that I was unduly elated and tried to assume the interest that a friend should.

AGBA Group Holding Limited (NASDAQ: AGBA) Expects High Growth to Exceed US$160m Revenue with its Market-Leading Franchise
9:15 AM ET 5/1/23 Dow Jones
AGBA Group Holding Limited (NASDAQ: 'AGBA') Expects High Growth to Exceed US$160m Revenue with its Market-Leading Franchise
PR Newswire
HONG KONG, May 1, 2023
HONG KONG, May 1, 2023 /PRNewswire/ -- AGBA Group Holding Limited (Nasdaq: "AGBA"), a leading one-stop financial supermarket in Hong Kong makes certain clarifications to their projected revenue, franchise strength, and engagement with investors and analysts.
Revenue:
As previously stated in the disclosure of "AGBA Group Financial Projections 2023-2027 and Valuation Presentation" released on April 14, 2023, AGBA Group expected to achieve approximately US$160 million in revenue for 2023, which is equivalent to a 533% growth from the full year revenue in 2022 as reported in the Form 10-K for the fiscal year ended December 31, 2022. During the three years under COVID-19 impact from 2020 to 2022, the group maintained a solid revenue track record between US$69m to US$88m per annum. AGBA expects that the current China's border reopening will spur a new wave of revenue growth in 2023 and 2024. Further disclosures and explanations can be found in the "AGBA Group Financial Projections 2023-2027 and Valuation Presentation" at www.agba.com/ir.
Franchise Strength:
AGBA Group is situated in AGBA Tower in Wan Chai, a prominent business district in Hong Kong, serving as the headquarters of its core financial services business. With over 30 years of track record and a workforce of 2,600+ colleagues, the Group specializes in selling life insurance policies and mutual funds, making AGBA one of the largest and most established companies in the region.
For more information, please visit our website: www.agba.com/ir.
Safe Harbor Statement
This press release contains forward-looking statements as defined by the Private Securities Litigation Reform Act of 1995. Forward-looking statements include statements concerning plans, objectives, goals, strategies, future events or performance, and underlying assumptions and other statements that are other than statements of historical facts. When the Company uses words such as "may," "will," "intend," "should," "believe," "expect," "anticipate," "project," "estimate" or similar expressions that do not relate solely to historical matters, it is making forward-looking statements. Forward-looking statements are not guarantees of future performance and involve risks and uncertainties that may cause the actual results to differ materially from the Company's expectations discussed in the forward-looking statements. These statements are subject to uncertainties and risks including, but not limited to, the following: the Company's goals and strategies; the Company's future business development; product and service demand and acceptance; changes in technology; economic conditions; the outcome of any legal proceedings that may be instituted against us following the consummation of the business combination; expectations regarding our strategies and future financial performance, including its future business plans or objectives, prospective performance and opportunities and competitors, revenues, products, pricing, operating expenses, market trends, liquidity, cash flows and uses of cash, capital expenditures, and our ability to invest in growth initiatives and pursue acquisition opportunities; reputation and brand; the impact of competition and pricing; government regulations; fluctuations in general economic and business conditions in Hong Kong and the international markets the Company plans to serve and assumptions underlying or related to any of the foregoing and other risks contained in reports filed by the Company with the SEC, the length and severity of the recent coronavirus outbreak, including its impacts across our business and operations. For these reasons, among others, investors are cautioned not to place undue reliance upon any forward-looking statements in this press release. Additional factors are discussed in the Company's filings with the SEC, which are available for review at www.sec.gov. The Company undertakes no obligation to publicly revise these forward--looking statements to reflect events or circumstances that arise after the date hereof.
About AGBA Group:
Established in 1993, AGBA Group Holding Limited (NASDAQ: "AGBA") is a leading one-stop financial supermarket based in Hong Kong offering the broadest set of financial services and healthcare products in the Guangdong-Hong Kong-Macao Greater Bay Area (GBA) through a tech-led ecosystem, enabling clients to unlock the choices that best suit their needs. Trusted by over 400,000 individual and corporate customers, the Group is organized into four market-leading businesses: Platform Business, Distribution Business, Healthcare Business, and Fintech Business.
For more information about AGBA, please visit www.agba.com
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SOURCE AGBA Group Holding Ltd
/CONTACT: Kate Siu, [email protected], +852 3601 3699; Yuan Tung Financial Relations Limited, Agnes Yiu, [email protected], +852 3428 5690; Investor Relations, Bethany Lai, [email protected], +852 5529 4500

https://i.redd.it/74ae26krwk2b1.jpeg
​ SUMMARY Italian-based SMEG is known for its '50s retro-look appliances designed in collaboration with some of the world's top architects. This toaster combines iconic midcentury style with modern features, so you can count on perfect toast or bagels every time. Choose from a selection of luscious colors that match other SMEG appliances for a coordinated collection.
Two extra-wide slots. Six browning levels offer precise control of browning. Backlit chrome knob with four functions: Reheat, Defrost, Cancel, Bagel. Self-centering racks hold toast upright for even browning. Removable stainless-steel crumb tray.
DIMENSIONS & MORE INFO Model #TSF01WHUS. Steel with powder-coated enamel finish that resists scratches, stains and corrosion. Anti-slip feet. Built-in cord wrap for safety. 12 1/4" x 7 3/4" x 7 3/4" high; 5 lb. 4 oz. Slot width: 1 1/4". 950W. This product is intended for use in the United States and Canada and is built to U.S. electrical standards. Made in China.
USE & CARE CARE Wipe clean with damp cloth.
SHIPPING & RETURNS SHIPPING INFORMATION This item will be shipped directly from the manufacturer and is not eligible for rush shipping. Please allow one to two weeks for delivery.
SHIPPING RATES The shipping rate varies depending on your order total and shipping destination. View Shipping Options and Charges.
RETURN POLICY At Williams Sonoma, we take great pride in the quality and craftsmanship of our products. Attention to design, materials, safety and construction are our priority. Upon receipt, please inspect your purchase and notify us of any damage; we will arrange for a prompt replacement.
Within 30 days, you may return most items for a refund of the merchandise value. An original receipt or gift receipt is required for all returns and exchanges. Returns with a gift receipt will be refunded in the form of a Merchandise Credit for the amount indicated on the gift receipt. Returns with original receipt will be refunded in the original form of payment, cash and check refunds over $100 will be issued as a company check (may take 14 business days from time of request). Please note that returned items must be in new condition.
Cutlery returns (knife sets, single knives, cutting boards, knife sharpeners and knife storage) may require extra information and safety instructions. To initiate your return, please contact us at 888.922.4108 or visit us at your local store.
We cannot accept returns on monogrammed, personalized, special-order items, custom upholstery, food or on items damaged through normal wear and tear. Final sale items ending in .97, .98 or .99 cannot be returned. We also cannot accept returns of any food products, which are considered final sale items.
Made to Order and Final Sale Furniture items are non-returnable and cannot be cancelled once the order is placed.
For returns of items purchased from your Williams Sonoma Gift Registry, we will gladly provide a refund or exchange for the merchandise within 90 days of your event or within 90 days of purchase, whichever date is later. View Full Returns Policy.
TOASTED BREAKFAST SANDWICH RECIPE Toast the bread in a toaster and spread the butter on one side of each slice. Top 4 of the slices with the cheese, dividing evenly. Set aside.
In a 12-inch nonstick griddle or fry pan over medium heat, warm the oil. Break 2 eggs into the pan and cook until the whites are set and the edges of the yolks are just beginning to set, 3 to 4 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer to a plate. Repeat with the remaining 2 eggs.
Place 1 egg on top of each cheese-topped bread slice, followed by 2 bacon slices. Arrange the arugula on top. Cover each sandwich with one of the remaining bread slices, buttered side down. Serve immediately. Serves 4.
See full Toasted Breakfast Sandwich Recipe.