Download PDF Counting Silly Faces: Numbers Fiftyone to Sixty (Counting Silly Faces to One Hundred Book 6)

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The engine has indexed several million definitions so far, and at this stage it's starting to give consistently good results though it may return weird results sometimes. It acts a lot like a thesaurus except that it allows you to search with a definition, rather than a single word. So in a sense, this tool is a "search engine for words", or a sentence to word converter. I made this tool after working on Related Words which is a very similar tool, except it uses a bunch of algorithms and multiple databases to find similar words to a search query.

That project is closer to a thesaurus in the sense that it returns synonyms for a word or short phrase query, but it also returns many broadly related words that aren't included in thesauri. So this project, Reverse Dictionary, is meant to go hand-in-hand with Related Words to act as a word-finding and brainstorming toolset. For those interested, I also developed Describing Words which helps you find adjectives and interesting descriptors for things e.

In case you didn't notice, you can click on words in the search results and you'll be presented with the definition of that word if available. The definitions are sourced from the famous and open-source WordNet database, so a huge thanks to the many contributors for creating such an awesome free resource. Special thanks to the contributors of the open-source code that was used in this project: Elastic Search , HubSpot , WordNet , and mongodb. Reverse Dictionary. Popular Searches.

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Here's a list of the sites that I'm currently working on: reverse dictionary is a website that allows you to find words based on their definition. In other words, it turns sentences or phrases into words. I can't make any promises. I was born with my hopes up. As if she noticed it, too, the woman held her own glass up to the light. Did you buy them for the occasion? I don't use them very often. She hesitated, frowning at the news, then after a moment, "You're not going to get hurt, are you?

He turned.

She laid a thin hand over her glass. But Henry, teeth gleaming in the candlelight, drew the bottle out of its wastebasket and raised it teasingly over her spread fingers.

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But he knew not to stop. He kept tilting the bottle until she had to snatch her hand away, laughing, at the last possible second to catch the wine as it fell. But just this one. She was swaying ever so slightly to the music.

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Benny Goodman plays a clarinet. I stood there, staring at the two of them. I wondered if, in the candlelight with the music playing and the wine catching the light as if it were electrically charged, this woman had any idea what kind of a man my father was. If she could tell that he'd never poured a glass of champagne in his life, that the jacket he was wearing didn't really fit, that all he knew about Benny Goodman was what instrument he played. I wondered if, under all these conditions, she could still tell what a complete flake he could actually be.

But all she said, with her head tilted slightly, gazing up at him was, "How tall are you? Henry Bailey, Sr. With a smile she stepped closer, raising her champagne flute and touching it to his. It gave a little timorous clink. With his glass held like a bouquet in his left hand Henry laid his other lightly on her slender waist.

She began to move her wine slowly through the air, as if tracing the kite tail of the music, and he moved his own to match. Their feet shuffled almost accidentally to the rhythm in something that was not quite dancing, but was closer than anything my father had ever done before.


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The music wound on, and the two of them swayed together following the movement of the sparkling crystal. And as they moved, each occasional stutter or uncertain step produced the thin, fragile ding of the glasses colliding. At last the clarinet gave a final little swoop and died. The two figures stood there, uncertainly, then stepped apart, and together they peered in through the open window at the stereo, as if uncertain what came next. After a moment Henry whispered something, and she laughed.

He doesn't seem to be holding anything. That seemed to take him aback. He hesitated as, from the living room, Stanley Turrentine's sexy saxophone insinuated itself out into the candlelight. Her face was pale beneath the black hair and dark-painted lips. She laughed again, and my father smiled uneasily as if he hadn't the slightest idea what to do next.

I crept silently around to the back of the house and in through the kitchen and up the stairs, pursued all the while by the soft, rising thread of the music. Years ago we had divided the second floor more or less in half.

To the right was what I still thought of, despite my best intentions, despite the angry, impatient lectures I gave myself at odd moments of the day, as my parents' room. To the left was the bathroom, and further still, two rooms, front and back. They weren't large, but there was plenty of space to mill around in. One was my bedroom. Into the other, gradually, without ever actually deciding to, we had moved all the furniture, all the books and clothing and knickknacks we couldn't bear to have in the rest of the house.

All her favorite chairs, a bright pink and floral rug she'd gotten at a flea market, a few paintings she'd bought over the years, a small mahogany secretary she had picked up at an auction and refinished herself. We just piled everything into the middle of the room and closed the door. But eventually I had set about rearranging things, pushing the boxes into the corner, laying down the rug, putting up the pictures.

It had been odd at first to see all those things suddenly condensed into one place, but gradually I began to spend more and more time in there. Sometimes I would read. Sometimes I'd just sit. I used to pretend my mother had died. I sat in her chair and made up complicated stories, full of incident and detail, turning them over in my mind and playing out a whole array of tragic deaths. I would read about disasters in the newspaper and imagine that my mother had been involved, that I had just read her name among the list of victims or seen her photograph--a smiling portrait taken during some birthday or family occasion, and supplied by her grieving husband and son--and that the shock of her death was only slowly settling into my mind.

I imagined her in a car accident, running head-on into a telephone pole, or crashing into the ocean aboard a , or falling as the random victim of some crazy gunman in a hold-up at the Seven-Eleven. I didn't dwell on the details of the accident itself.

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What I imagined as I sat in her chair, which at some moments still carried the faint hint of her perfume like the echo of a muffled cry, as if she'd spoken into the fabric and the sound even now was rising in little whispers What I imagined was that she had perished on her way home and in the last instant, when she realized she would never see her beloved husband and child again, she had been struck by the most bitter sadness.

That's what I thought. That's what I would pretend. But this was early on, when she'd only been gone a year, two years, three, and I was slowly having to realize she wasn't coming back, and I thought how much easier it would have been if, one way or another, she had been taken against her will. I never told Henry any of this. I wasn't sure he'd understand. I never really knew what his thoughts were.

It wasn't anything we talked about, and my father never really came into the parlor, never sat in her chair. Though sometimes I caught sight of him frozen for a moment in mid-gesture, blank-faced and staring as if there were something he was trying to follow in the distance. It always gave me a stab of worry, and one afternoon I asked him. He was hunched, motionless in the garden with his trowel hanging limply from one hand. Are you okay? He shook his head, but only to clear it.

We just stood there, two people tied together by the silence, as I waited for him to move again, to straighten up and stand, just to be on the safe side, just to make sure it wasn't a stroke or a coronary or some blockage in the brain, just to make sure it was still only heartbreak.