Novel & Cerita Reading A Book In A Day

I answered with a sly smile on my face. And then he started. I think I found my favorite way of reading my books, and that would be through Damon. Audio books didn't come close. At the first page, he was been all grumpy and dragging the words, but when it got to the part where the female lead walked in on her husband fucking his maid, his entire expression changed. He let out a string of curses at Phillip being an asshole and all sorts of stuff and in a way it felt like he was enjoying the book, more than me.

Anastasia just nodded and dismisses her. Sighing in defeat, she force herself to placed down the book for awhile. She was reading that book for almost three days. The title of the book is 'Belladonna'. As a reader and as a critic, she can say that the book was really good–no, it was incredible. It was well-written and the story plot was very interesting. But sadly, she cant read it continuously specially that her chosen profession was very demanding. So she doesn't have a choice but to read it part by part.

he asked. Afrah had to purse her lips as she thought hard. Sadly, there were very few talents she possessed as a whole. And none of them could be safely or accurately controlled, so much so that they would become an Olympic sport. It was a tricky question, and it had her questioning the things she was good at. Finally though, the answer came to her. "Speed reading," she said with a smile. "Speed reading?" Adnan laughed. "How come?" "Let me put it this way," she smirked. "I finished the entirety of the Hunger Games series in two days straight."

I need to take time. I remember the small room I entered last time. I slowly opened the door and turned on the lampshade. The books on the table were still scattered. I tried to look and read each one of them. These are all interesting books. Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and a lot more. I tried to find something that might help me, but I found nothing.

Like 271 days was boring. Like home was obvious. _Thump._ *3:00 PM. [SFX: CLOCK. THEN NONE. THEN SEVEN.]* Living room. Not fireplace. Not _COURT_ box. Burned 265 days ago. Just us. Seven. Me. Floor. February. Chest. Sleeping. 3 PM. On time. Adrian. Next to me. 59 BPM. Head on my shoulder. Alex. Other side. Book. Reading. To her. _The House That Was Just Home._ Page 1. “Once upon a time there was a house that was not a court…”

Why some packs rose, why others crumbled into dust. Light reading. The kind of thing normal people grabbed when they couldn't sleep. Or when they were secretly unhinged. She didn't consider herself a fast reader, yet the moment she opened it the pages pulled her in, each chapter feeling disturbingly familiar, like scattered memories rising too quickly to the surface. Her brain was doing that thing again, the thing she refused to name, where information locked into place like it had been waiting for her to catch up. She devoured the entire book before he returned. Six hundred pages. In under two hours. She would take that particular detail to her grave.

She brought it down to the couch and took out the first volume and started flipping the pages. “My God, I could stay for days here just to read this book. There is no way I can finish it in hours.” She started to feel a bit overwhelmed by the thick pages. Ana was a woman who could sit down just reading for hours in her leisure time but since she was merely visiting him she thought it was impossible for her to truly enjoy the wonderful books inside the house.

Three More Hours Later. Done, I told myself. I think that is enough for today's reading. I finished two books today in five hours. “Fear You” Book 2. I started Book 3 “Fear Us” Broken Love Series. I got two more to read again. I am so excited to read them over again. I thought with a cocky grin. But what I didn’t know is. How do they know they were my favorite books? What a strange one. They must have stalked me or asked someone that knows me well.

Julian ------ She gave him the manuscript on a Sunday morning. All of it. Three hundred and twenty-one pages, printed, stacked on the kitchen counter with a single sticky note on top that read: *One week. No edits. Just read.* He read it in four days. Not because he rushed. Because he couldn't stop. He read it the way she had told him to — as a reader, not a participant. He tried. The first fifty pages he succeeded, losing himself in her account of the trials the way a reader would, following the thread of a story whose outcome he didn't know.