Page 401 - BRAVE NEW WORLD By Aldous Huxley (1894-1963)

Brave New World By Aldous Huxley

frenzy the Savage ran back to the house, seized it,

whirled it. The knotted cords bit into his flesh.

"Strumpet! Strumpet!" he shouted at every

blow as though it were Lenina (and how frantically,

without knowing it, he wished it were), white,

warm, scented, infamous Lenina that he was

dogging thus. "Strumpet!" And then, in a voice of

despair, "Oh, Linda, forgive me. Forgive me, God.

I'm bad. I'm wicked. I'm No, no, you strumpet,

you strumpet!"

From his carefully constructed hide in the

wood three hundred metres away, Darwin

Bonaparte, the Feely Corporation's most expert big

game photographer had watched the whole

proceedings. Patience and skill had been rewarded.

He had spent three days sitting inside the bole of an

artificial oak tree, three nights crawling on his belly

through the heather, hiding microphones in gorse

bushes, burying wires in the soft grey sand.

Seventy-two hours of profound discomfort. But now

me great moment had come–the greatest, Darwin

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