Book Review Of Novel Emma By Jane Austen Novels & Stories

"I need as much information as you can get about a girl named Amelia, who was last seen in Seattle working at a bookstore: Her regimen. She associates Her weaknesses, for example. I believe she has an alibi and has returned to town, but I need to know about the people she left behind. Marcus whistled softly. "Well, Ema, if a girl was good enough for you to personally go after her, then she must have messed you up." Ema's expression clouded. "You don't even realize that. "Can you do it, or not?" "Oh, I can do it," Marcus responded hastily, lest someone else take the position; he proceeded to bring a notebook nearer him. "It simply may be that it will take time; in addition, it won't be cheap.

Expectations. I couldn’t afford distractions. Especially not one named Emma Reed. I headed downstairs and froze. The dining room was occupied. My father sat at the table, drinking coffee. And beside him sat Emma. She looked exhausted. Dark circles lingered beneath her eyes. Her shoulders were slightly hunched as though the weight of the world rested on them. She was not eating. Instead she stared at the untouched food on her plate. The bond reacted instantly. A strange ache spread through my chest. I hated it. I hated that i cared.

Heading up into the sun he was surprised, and a little irritated, to see Emma had fallen asleep under the highest point of it in the day, it was noon judging by its position, and she was only being saved from the rays by a book over her face. He knew it was her just from that little body alone, she had a figure the other girls should envy, soft curves and perfectly proportioned little limbs. Even her dainty feet always fascinated him. He’d never been a fan of small delicate girls before Emma but somehow it only added to everything about her that was perfect. He sat down on the lounger beside her, smiling at the romance book cover with a shake of his head. The girl was complicated, to say the

"Meaning?" Jake walked over to Harold's bookshelf and pulled out Emma's latest novel, *Dangerous Devotion*. "This is good. Very good. Your prose is elegant, your dialogue snaps, your pacing is excellent." He turned to face her, the book in his hands. "But it's safe. Controlled. You write passion like you're describing it from outside a window instead of feeling it yourself." Emma's cheeks flamed. "That's not"

She had replied, before winking at him and walking away with Eva, Shane and Clem. The house, being already cleaned and tidied up made Emma more relaxed, seeing that the evidence of the break in had been erased completely from her home; the tardiness and disarray were all gone. And that Derek was also with her. She waited in her room, reading one of Sydney Sheldon's novel, 'master of the game', as he tried to prepare something for her to eat. She had told him some minutes ago, that she was hungry; and he hadn't let her cook for herself.

Well, I guess I'm not that lucky. Accepting my fate, I discretely watch Emma read until my eyes get tired. It's not exciting at all but I have to admit that it's somewhat intriguing to see the expression on Emma face change with every plot twist. She smiles every once and a while, clearly enjoying the words on the pages, and her eyes sparkle when she reads something amusing. I find myself smiling along with her, wondering what her book is about. It must be good if she seems to forget that I'm in the room with her. I want to know what the book is but I can't see the cover or the spine. Puckering my lips, I just continue watching Emma's face. It's blank, now, making me think that the book has

The room was filled with dusty old books, and as Emma walked through the stacks, she felt a strange sense of familiarity. ** ** ** ** Emma spent the first few days in her ancestral home cleaning, organizing, and trying to restore the old mansion to its former glory. She had called the local carpenters and bricklayers to help her breathe life back into the building. The creaky floors, the old furniture, and the musty scent that hung in the air gave her a sense of nostalgia that she couldn't quite explain. It was scary having to stay alone at first, but in the next few days, she kind of got used to it.

But staying right in bed won’t help with his headache so he groaned and walked into the kitchen and saw Emma. Scanning her with his eyes, he thought she looked ravishing just in her crop top and bumshot. As he stood by the kitchen’s threshold, he watched her playing with her dark locks as she stared at the book she was reading. Why was she reading in the kitchen? As if she felt a heavy burden of concentrated gaze, her head flew in the direction of the kitchen door and saw the last person she wanted to see for the day. What was he still doing at home? They kept staring at each other until Emma decided to break away and clear her throat feeling too awkward.

Andrew DeLuca On that morning, after waking up, something different hung in the air. I could feel Emma's presence, her eyes on me while I slept. This wasn't something I was accustomed to; women had always been fleeting in my life, never eliciting anything more than passing interest. But with Emma, something was different. She was nice, too. After getting up and getting dressed, I observed Emma. She was sitting in the living room, gazing out at the sea, looking somewhat distracted. Her eyes lifted to meet mine, and there was a moment of tense silence.

Emma's chin lifted, and she met the blaze of his black eyes with narrowed ones. Slowly, the glittering half closed eyes traced her face, from her upturned nose to her generous mouth. His gaze inched down her neck to rest on the curves covered by her shirt, then skid to the short skirt. The languorous appraisal traveled with microscopic care upward again until it met her cold stare. She shifted her weight and looped her thumbs in her skirt to keep her hands steady. With much care as his, Emma's eyes swept the arrogantly tilted head, the expensively cut suit, down to the custom-made shoes. Then, without a flicker, she met his eyes.