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a proprietária roald dahl
billy weaver had travelled down from london on the slow afternoon train, with a change at reading on the way, and by the time he got to bath it was about nine o’clock in the evening and the moon was coming up out of a clear, starry sky over the houses opposite the station entrance. but the air was deadly cold and the wind was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks. “excuse me,” he said to a porter, “but is there a fairly cheap hotel not too far away from here?” “try the bell and dragon,” the porter answered, pointing down the road. “they might take you in. it’s about a quarter of a mile along on the other side.” billy thanked him and picked up his suitcase and set out to walk the quarter mile to the bell and dragon. he had never been to bath before. he didn’t know anyone who lived there. but mr. greenslade at the head office in london had told him it was a splendid town. “find your own lodgings,” he had said, “and then go along and report to the branch manager as soon as you’ve got yourself settled.” billy was seventeen years old. he was wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new brown trilby hat, and a new brown suit, and he was feeling fine. he walked briskly down the street. he was trying to do everything briskly these days. briskness, he had decided, was the one common characteristic of all successful businessmen. the big shots up at head office were absolutely fantastically brisk all the time. they were amazing. there were no shops on this wide street that he was walking along, only a line of tall houses on each side, all of them identical. they had porches and pillars and four or five steps going up to their front doors, and it was obvious that once upon a time they had been very swanky residences. but now, even in the darkness, he could see that the paint was peeling from the woodwork on their doors and windows, and that the handsome white façades were cracked and blotchy from neglect. suddenly, not six yards away, in a downstairs window that was brilliantly illuminated by a street lamp, billy caught sight of a printed notice propped up against the glass in one of the upper panes. it said “bed and breakfast.” there was a vase of yellow chrysanthemums, tall and beautiful, standing just underneath the notice. he stopped walking. he moved a bit closer. green curtains (some sort of velvety material) were hanging down on either side of the window. the chrysanthemums looked wonderful beside them. he went right up and peered through the glass into the room, and the first thing he saw was a bright fire burning on the hearth. on the carpet in front of the fire, a pretty little dachshund was curled up asleep, with its nose tucked into its belly. the room itself, as far as he could see in the half darkness, was filled with pleasant furniture. there was a baby-grand piano and a big sofa and several plump armchairs, and in one corner he spotted a large parrot in a cage. animals were usually a good sign in a place like this, billy told himself, and all in all, it looked as though it would be a pretty decent house to stay in. certainly it would be more comfortable than the bell and dragon. on the other hand, a pub would be more congenial than a boarding house. there would be beer and darts in the evenings, and lots of people to talk to, and it would probably be a good bit cheaper, too. he had stayed a couple of nights in a pub once before, and he had liked it. he had never stayed in any boarding houses, and to be perfectly honest, he was a tiny bit frightened of them. the name itself conjured up images of watery cabbage, rapacious landladies, and a powerful smell of kippers in the living room. after dithering about like this in the cold for two or three minutes, billy decided that he would walk on and take a look at the bell and dragon before making up his mind. he turned to go. and now a queer thing happened to him. he was in the act of stepping back and turning away from the window when all at once his eye was caught again and held in the most peculiar manner by the small notice that was there, “bed and breakfast,” it said. “bed and breakfast, bed and breakfast, bed and breakfast.” each word was like a large black eye staring at him through the glass, holding him, compelling him, forcing him to stay where he was and not walk away from that house, and the next thing he knew he was actually moving across from the window to the front door, climbing the steps that led up to it, and reaching for the bell.
(aiiirutura do representante do proprietária/armador)
whereas the council defined common position 95/515/ cfsp on nigeria (') on 20 november 1995 and common position 95/544/cfsp on nigeria on 4 december 1995Í2);
