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There was a loud cough from the man on the stand. I replaced My Magic Mirror carefully on his tray, gave him a cheesy smile, and went my way.

Jonathan Stroud

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Jonathan Stroud
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: October 27
Novelist
Writer
Jonathan Anthony Stroud
Men
Loud
Mirrors
Tray
Smile
Trays
Gave
Cough
Magic
Cheesy
Stand
Replaced
Went
Carefully
Way
Mirror

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So I departed, leaving behind a pungent smell of brimstone. Just something to remember me by.
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Hey, we've all got problems, chum. I'm overly talkative. You look like a field of buttercups in a suit.
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Besides, if you're going to die horribly, you might as well do it with style.
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The Hermit was known to be pretty sniffy about disciples who returned in failure. There was a wall of the institute layered with their skins- an ingenious display that encouraged vigor in his students, as well as nicely keeping out the drafts.
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He was a worried man (I'm stretching the term a bit here, I know. By now, in his mid to late teens, he might just about have passed for a man. When seen from behind. At a distance. On a very dark night).
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Then again, Solomon was human. And that meant he was flawed (Go on, take a look at yourself in the mirror. A good long look, if you can bear it. See? Flawed's putting it mildly, isn't it?)
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Did Lovelace's forces find you? Did Jabor break in? He spoke slowly through clenched teeth. I went to get a newspaper This is getting better and better! I shook my head regretfully. You should leave such a dangerous assignment to people better qualified: next time ask an old granny, or a toddler-
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According to some, heroic deaths are admirable things. I've never been convinced by this argument, mainly because, no matter how cool, stylish, composed, unflappable, manly, or defiant you are, at the end of the day you're also dead. Which is a little too permanent for my liking.
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When I was young, I kept a diary for about 10 years and I had to write in it every day. Even on days when nothing seemed to happen, I made myself think of something to put in it.
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We communicated with pithy, rather monosyllabic thoughts: viz. Run, Jump, Where? Left, Up, Duck, ect. (This latter was an observation I made on the edge of a lake. Nathaniel unfortunately took it as a command, which resulted in our temporary immersion.) We didn't ever quite say Ug, but it was a close-run thing.
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And then, as if written by the hand of a bad novelist, an incredible thing happened.
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listen, a goad's anything that provokes or incites an enemy --- let me have a go: cursed deamon! you have met your end! the shivering fire awaits you! i shall spread your vile essance across this hall like... um, like margarine, a very think layer of it... --- ye-es... im not sure he'll pick up on that analogy. never mind, keep going.
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He was transfixed at the sight of the lords and ladies of his realm running about like demented chickens.
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Fiftey years isn't too bad. With luck you might see it happen when your a sweet,old granny,dandling big fat babies on your knee. Actully-he held up a hand,interrupting Kitty's cry of protest-no,that's wrong. My projection is incorrect. Good. You'll never be a sweet old granny. Let's say,'sad,lonely old biddy' instead.
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Haven't you done enough for a lifetime? Think about it - two power - crazed magicians killed, a hundred power - crazed magicians saved.
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Ah, you coward! Look at you, running. Actually, it's called improvising.
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