Shadow Girl Read Online Free PDF

lounge, casts a seemingly appreciative eye at the harbour scene, then takes in the expansive open-plan lounge and kitchen. His gaze roams from the plush leather sofa to the potted hibiscus on the coffee table, from the potted hibiscus to the trendy honeycomb bookshelves on the far wall. Then it comes to rest on the framed print of a young blonde woman lying on her side in dazed abandon.
    The girl is smiling, entranced by some inner vision. She does not see her golden surroundings — the sun-drenched eucalypts and the sea behind her. Nor is she conscious of her own nudity, only half clothed by a thin muslin veil. Her curvaceous hip, softly rounded shoulder and delicate neck flow across the frame like sensual landforms, tapering to the fine weave of her scattered hair. Her right arm has collapsed behind her back, out of sight, leaving her breast exposed. Vulnerable.
    Yaouen has stepped closer to the picture.
    â€˜A beautiful collector’s item, if I may say.’ He leans over slightly. ‘There is something curiously contented about her, don’t you think?’
    Sandra has no desire to discuss her choice of art but suppresses her impatience.
    â€˜Arthur Streeton’s Oblivion ,’ she says tersely. ‘One of his lesser known paintings. It’s just a print.’ Just a high quality reproduction she picked up from a city gallery, on an impulse. Not the sort of thing she usually goes for.
    She glances at the mesmerised lotus eater of Tennyson’s poem — the inspiration for Streeton’s nude. Enthralled, bereft of the will to act or protect herself, the girl offers such a sharp counterpoint to her own life. A weird inversion of herself. Sandra has a sneaky feeling that’s why she bought the print.
    Or perhaps it was the title that resonated with her. Oblivion. Like that hole in her past. That monstrous blank which has stolen the better part of her life.
    But now is not the time to dwell on her amnesia again. To engage in that fruitless exercise. There is pressing business to attend to.
    She turns back to Yaouen and shows him the chair. The man, however, has raised a finger.
    â€˜May I be so bold as to request a cup of coffee? Strong, very strong, no sugar. I find this always clears my mind before a session. Besides, I would welcome the opportunity to expound my strategy before we start in earnest.’
    A whiff of annoyance tickles Sandra’s nose. The fellow is clearly the cheeky sort. But she checks herself. He has a point. She’d better find out more about this lightning-fast program with the guaranteed results.
    â€˜Sure,’ she responds grudgingly. ‘I’ll make a cup.’ She walks over to the kitchen bench and busies herself with the coffee machine. ‘So, what about this foolproof method? And how exactly does it meet the needs of the modern active woman? That’s what your ad says.’
    â€˜Ah yes, the active woman,’ he echoes. ‘That part will become clear to you as we proceed, I promise, so I will not dwell upon this at present. But in general terms, the program I have devised’ — his voice quivers with pride momentarily — ‘draws upon the latest neurolinguistics research, as well as tried and tested techniques. It would take too long to give you a full account of the theory behind my approach, and this would be quite beyond the scope of this conversation’ — Sandra glances at her watch — ‘but the main idea is that if you master a small number of core phonemes in a language, you can also control its grammar and syntax. Given the right kind of stimulus.’
    Sandra stares at him blankly.
    â€˜Put simply,’ he clarifies, ‘get a few sounds right and you’ll be able to make not just correct sentences but speak as fluently as a native!’
    This sounds to Sandra far too good to be true.
    â€˜Are you telling me,’ she asks, suspicious again, ‘that if I repeat a few sounds, I