So we have to be careful in choosing our stop words. To change the distance of. In Table Properties, under Text Wrapping, click Around. If you dont see Table Properties on the shortcut menu, Control + Click in a different part of the table. Text Wrapping In Word Table Configure text wrapping around a table Control + Click the table, and then click Table Properties.His beard was trimmed, his bald head shiny. His farm jacket and green Wellingtons discarded, he wore pressed trousers and a short beige jacket. Grandpa was dressed as I’d only seen him dress for Mass. “Haven’t you got big.” There was the familiar grip of her fingers and the rustle of her mac as she drew close. She had a silk scarf wrapped around her hair and her lipstick made a bright-red bow. “Look at the lot of you,” Nana said, eager.There was a pause as we looked guiltily through the car windows, aware of how long the stretches were when her letters lay unanswered, how hard it was to know what to say.The bungalow they’d moved to was on a slope that overlooked the bay. A word of warning: if your keyboard has a wire stabilizer under larger keys.All I could think of was what I mustn’t say.“We’re fine.” Bea filled the silence with her plans of London, and the college she’d be starting in September—art, art history, French—while Nana fluttered that she always was a clever one, and hadn’t she the smart handwriting, she always admired it, when she wrote. Tip: You see how the text will wrap around the image by just hovering your mouse over each of the options.Theres a hidden volume control in your Mac menu bar.
The first place we’d stayed after our mother escaped to her friend Jane’s was the Humphrys’. “Fuck,” Bea said, rolling herself a cigarette, and I thought about how often I’d watched her blow smoke out of the window, or had waited for her to come home at night. Our mother was to share with Max. I was in a twin room with Bea. Grandpa sat down in an armchair and picked up the paper—he still read Farmers Weekly—and Nana went into the small kitchen to put on the kettle.There were two spare bedrooms in the bungalow. There was an oatmeal carpet and the place was very neat. But even before we reached the school Mrs. Together we walked under an umbrella, stumbling beneath its shadowed dome, along the edge of the golf course, across the Brighton Road, and down the cow path, my right arm stiff lest I accidentally touch him. She gave me a fortifying hug, and while I did my best not to sob against her bosom, Steve finished his toast. Humphry suggested that I walk to school with Steve. One morning, the night after I’d locked myself in the bathroom for the second time (even though they’d warned me not to lock it), Mrs. We didn’t mention Fenella—the cause of our breakup—who I blanked in class, but neither did he try and kiss me, which left a large, sad stretch of time where kissing once took place.“I’m going for a walk,” Bea said, flinging away the mashed end of her roll-up. He’d call me on a homemade telephone, two tin cans and a length of string strung between our rooms, and we’d talk, leaning out of our adjoining windows, sometimes for up to an hour. But if Lawrie did find me more interesting his ways of showing it were subtle. The bedroom was next to his, and, just as we’d done during the winter of our going out, we lay together on his bed while he flicked through motorcycle magazines, and I breathed in the raw, fresh-air smell of him and wondered how we could find our way back to the time before.He’ll find me more interesting now, I’d thought when our mother told us we were leaving. The bungalow was new, and above it, at regular intervals, were other, even newer bungalows, all with the same plate-glass windows framing the view. “Let’s go down,” I said, pointing to the water, but she turned the other way and hurried uphill.I followed her in silence. Bea had reached the end of the short drive. “Afternoon,” the farmer said, squinting, curious, and when he whistled his dog slithered ahead and worried the sheep into a field.“Bea.” I was breathless as I caught up with her. A flock of sheep surged, thick as porridge, around a bend, and we climbed onto the ridge to let them pass. There was a whitewashed cottage nestled in a thicket, built, presumably, before a view was required. It was a leek soup with potato and small nubs of mutton that floated to the top. His beard was stained yellow, and he wheezed as he heaved himself up.Nana bit her lip and served the soup. “Should we go on?” I was relieved when she turned back.Nana had a ladle in her hand and was describing the ailments that afflicted her, the arthritis in her fingers, the heart trouble that had forced my grandparents to retire.“Stop the moaning, woman.” Grandpa knocked his pipe against the chair. We’d reached a plateau and the road had narrowed. “Give the child a steak, that’ll set him straight,” he said, and he turned to Nana. “He likes that.” Grandpa shot my mother an accusing look. We’d not eaten meat since arriving at the farm one summer to find our own orphaned, bottle-fed lambs had been carted off to market, but today there was nothing else save a white buttered triangle of bread, so I ate the potato and left the mutton in a small gray pile.Max gobbled his up. “For the taste.”Bea put down her spoon. Sewart for macHer trousers were stained wet halfway to the knee. But it wasn’t them, or, if it was, shame had blinded them and they drove on.“We’ll need a van at least,” my sister huffed. I froze, sure it was our grandparents returned, and I lowered my arm, expecting the screech of their brakes, the accusations. A red car approached, a man and a woman, side by side. In one hand he had Thomas, in the other Gordon, and he ran them up and down the seat, muttering, “Ballincollig, Colligballin,” while Mum sat in the front and studied the map. “Thanks so much.” She picked Max up and slid him in.Max sat between Bea and me and played with his trains. “Where are you off to?” A man leant across and pushed open the door.“Bantry Bay.” My mother’s dripping hair swung over her face.“That’s a way,” he said, hesitating, but even as he spoke, explaining that he was only going as far as Ballincollig, she swung open the back door. Words Aren'T Wrapping In Word Full Attention ToIt was quite obvious that she didn’t recognize Mum, although when prompted—I’m a friend of Jane’s, do you remember, Appleby?—they embraced, and we were told to come and see the puppies, seven of them, born the day before.The mother, Sorrel, was a lurcher, who lay in a heap of straw in the corner of the barn. “Good luck.” The man waved, and we shook ourselves, and Mum stood Max against the verge, and we all watched as the snail of his willy fattened and unfurled.“And me.” I followed Bea toward a scrubby bank behind which we squatted, our pee steaming hot against the ground.“Quick!” Mum yelled as we were shaking out the drops.Petula looked with horror at our bags. “Martin and Petula?” She didn’t sound as if she expected us to remember, and when we said nothing she gave her full attention to the driver.The rain had eased by the time we were set down at the turn. He grunted and said welcome, and slowly over that slow afternoon, the rabbit bubbling into a stew, men and women drifted in and sat at the table, playing music, dealing cards. Sorrel looked up with weary eyes, and I was reminded of when Max was born and we crowded in to examine our new brother.Martin was in the kitchen, hacking up a rabbit.
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