Crome Yellow
Aldous Huxley
āĻĄāĻŋāĻ¸ā§ ā§¨ā§Ļā§¨ā§Ļ ¡ Library of Alexandria ¡ Ava-āĻāĻ° āĻāĻŖā§āĻ ā§ (Google āĻĨā§āĻā§) AI-āĻ¨ā§āĻ¯āĻžāĻ°ā§āĻā§āĻĄ āĻ
āĻĄāĻŋāĻāĻŦā§āĻ
headphones
āĻ
āĻĄāĻŋāĻāĻŦā§āĻ
5 āĻāĻŖā§āĻāĻž 54 āĻŽāĻŋāĻ¨āĻŋāĻ
āĻ¸āĻāĻā§āĻˇāĻŋāĻĒā§āĻ¤ āĻ¨ā§
family_home
āĻāĻĒāĻ¯ā§āĻā§āĻ¤
info
text_to_speech
AI-āĻāĻ° āĻŽāĻžāĻ§ā§āĻ¯āĻŽā§ āĻŦāĻ°ā§āĻŖāĻ¨āĻž āĻāĻ°āĻž
reportāĻ°ā§āĻāĻŋāĻ āĻ āĻ°āĻŋāĻāĻŋāĻ āĻ¯āĻžāĻāĻžāĻ āĻāĻ°āĻž āĻšā§āĻ¨āĻŋ Â āĻāĻ°āĻ āĻāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻ¨
30 āĻŽāĻŋāĻ¨āĻŋāĻ āĻ¸āĻŽā§ā§āĻ° āĻ¨āĻŽā§āĻ¨āĻž āĻĒā§āĻ¤ā§ āĻāĻžāĻ¨? āĻ¯ā§āĻā§āĻ¨āĻ āĻ¸āĻŽā§ āĻļā§āĻ¨ā§āĻ¨, āĻāĻŽāĻ¨āĻāĻŋ āĻ
āĻĢāĻ˛āĻžāĻāĻ¨ā§ āĻĨāĻžāĻāĻ˛ā§āĻāĨ¤Â
āĻā§ā§ā§āĻ¨
āĻāĻ āĻ āĻĄāĻŋāĻāĻŦā§āĻā§āĻ° āĻŦāĻŋāĻˇā§ā§
Along this particular stretch of line no express had ever passed. All the trainsâthe few that there wereâstopped at all the stations. Denis knew the names of those stations by heart. Bole, Tritton, Spavin Delawarr, Knipswich for Timpany, West Bowlby, and, finally, Camlet-on-the-Water. Camlet was where he always got out, leaving the train to creep indolently onward, goodness only knew whither, into the green heart of England. They were snorting out of West Bowlby now. It was the next station, thank Heaven. Denis took his chattels off the rack and piled them neatly in the corner opposite his own. A futile proceeding. But one must have something to do. When he had finished, he sank back into his seat and closed his eyes. It was extremely hot. Oh, this journey! It was two hours cut clean out of his life; two hours in which he might have done so much, so muchâwritten the perfect poem, for example, or read the one illuminating book. Instead of whichâhis gorge rose at the smell of the dusty cushions against which he was leaning. Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be done in that time. Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of hours, and what had he done with them? Wasted them, spilt the precious minutes as though his reservoir were inexhaustible. Denis groaned in the spirit, condemned himself utterly with all his works. What right had he to sit in the sunshine, to occupy corner seats in third-class carriages, to be alive? None, none, none. Misery and a nameless nostalgic distress possessed him. He was twenty-three, and oh! so agonizingly conscious of the fact. The train came bumpingly to a halt. Here was Camlet at last. Denis jumped up, crammed his hat over his eyes, deranged his pile of baggage, leaned out of the window and shouted for a porter, seized a bag in either hand, and had to put them down again in order to open the door. When at last he had safely bundled himself and his baggage on to the platform, he ran up the train towards the van.
āĻāĻ āĻ āĻĄāĻŋāĻāĻŦā§āĻā§āĻ° āĻ°ā§āĻāĻŋāĻ āĻĻāĻŋāĻ¨
āĻāĻĒāĻ¨āĻžāĻ° āĻŽāĻ¤āĻžāĻŽāĻ¤ āĻāĻžāĻ¨āĻžāĻ¨āĨ¤
āĻā§āĻāĻžāĻŦā§ āĻļā§āĻ¨āĻŦā§āĻ¨
āĻ¸ā§āĻŽāĻžāĻ°ā§āĻāĻĢā§āĻ¨ āĻāĻŦāĻ āĻā§āĻ¯āĻžāĻŦāĻ˛ā§āĻ
Android āĻāĻŦāĻ iPad/iPhone āĻāĻ° āĻāĻ¨ā§āĻ¯ Google Play āĻŦāĻ āĻ
ā§āĻ¯āĻžāĻĒ āĻāĻ¨āĻ¸ā§āĻāĻ˛ āĻāĻ°ā§āĻ¨āĨ¤ āĻāĻāĻŋ āĻāĻĒāĻ¨āĻžāĻ° āĻ
ā§āĻ¯āĻžāĻāĻžāĻāĻ¨ā§āĻā§āĻ° āĻ¸āĻžāĻĨā§ āĻ
āĻā§āĻŽā§āĻāĻŋāĻ āĻ¸āĻŋāĻā§āĻ āĻšā§ āĻ āĻāĻĒāĻ¨āĻŋ āĻ
āĻ¨āĻ˛āĻžāĻāĻ¨ āĻŦāĻž āĻ
āĻĢāĻ˛āĻžāĻāĻ¨ āĻ¯āĻžāĻ āĻĨāĻžāĻā§āĻ¨ āĻ¨āĻž āĻā§āĻ¨ āĻāĻĒāĻ¨āĻžāĻā§ āĻĒā§āĻ¤ā§ āĻĻā§ā§āĨ¤
āĻ˛ā§āĻ¯āĻžāĻĒāĻāĻĒ āĻ āĻāĻŽā§āĻĒāĻŋāĻāĻāĻžāĻ°
āĻāĻĒāĻ¨āĻŋ āĻāĻĒāĻ¨āĻžāĻ° āĻāĻŽā§āĻĒāĻŋāĻāĻāĻžāĻ°ā§āĻ° āĻā§ā§āĻŦ āĻŦā§āĻ°āĻžāĻāĻāĻžāĻ°ā§āĻ° āĻŦā§āĻ¯āĻŦāĻšāĻžāĻ° āĻāĻ°ā§ Google Play āĻ¤ā§ āĻā§āĻ¨āĻž āĻŦāĻāĻā§āĻ˛āĻŋ āĻĒā§āĻ¤ā§ āĻĒāĻžāĻ°ā§āĻ¨āĨ¤
