A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain

By Mark Twain

While Connecticut mechanic and foreman Hank Morgan is knocked subconscious, he wakes to not the general scenes of nineteenth-century the US yet to the bewildering attractions and sounds of sixth-century Camelot. even supposing burdened at the start and speedy imprisoned, he quickly realises that his wisdom of the long run can rework his destiny. thoroughly predicting a sun eclipse from inside of his criminal telephone, Morgan terrifies the folks of britain into liberating him and speedily establishes himself because the strongest magician within the land, more suitable than Merlin and enormously favourite through Arthur himself. however the Connecticut Yankee needs for greater than easily a spot on the around desk. quickly, he starts a much higher fight: to convey American democratic beliefs to previous England. complicated and interesting, A Connecticut Yankee is a darkly comedian attention of the character of human nature and society.

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You haven't never seen my wife when she's got blue pajamas on or a 40 Both Parties Concerned blue dress of a blue bathing suit. I never knew what color stuff a girl had on before I knew Ruthie. But with Ruthie you know she's got something blue on. Ruthie, she said she only came downstairs because she wanted a glass of milk. Boy, what a lousy guy I am. You don't understand. I said to her all of a sudden, just for the heck of it, how I kind of memorized her note backwards. The one she wrote me. I recited the whole thing backwards for her.

You're underweight in the head," Ruthie said. I said, very cynic-like, "Thank you. " Ruthie, she and I didn't talk to each other again till morning. Ruthie always gets up to make breakfast and drive me to the bus stop. I always wait till I have my shirt and necktie on before I shake her because she's already awake. But that morning I had to shake the stuffin's out of her. It made me kind of sore that she was sleeping so good - well, I mean - because I hadn't slept good - well, at all. I never sleep good when I'm sort of worried.

I'll wait here with the books. "Oh, thanks, Mother," he said, coming out of Mihailov's studio. " His mother set down the tray on his desk. "The milk is ice cold," she said, giving it a build-up, which always amused him. Then she sat down on the foot-stool by his chair, watching her son's face, watching his thin, familiar hand pick up the fork - watching, watching, loving. He took a bite of the cake and washed it down with milk. It was ice cold. Not bad. "Not bad," he commented. "It's been on the ice since this morning," his mother said, happy with the negative compliment.

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