By Charles Kingsley Barrett
For over 100 years, the overseas severe statement sequence has held a distinct position between works at the Bible. It has sought to compile all of the correct aids to exegesis — linguistic and textual a minimum of archaeological, ancient, literary and theological—with a degree of comprehension and caliber of scholarship unequalled by way of the other sequence. No test has been made to safe a uniform theological or severe method of the biblical textual content: members were invited for his or her scholarly contrast, no longer for his or her adherence to anybody university of concept. the 1st paperback versions to be released hide the center of the hot testomony, offering a wealth of data and examine in available and engaging format.>
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Extra resources for A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, Volume 1 (International Critical Commentary - ICC)
For his seventeenth birthday, Johnny Board received a camera from his Aunt Marge, with whom he had been living for the past seven years in her cute little bungalow not far from Lumbar Beach. The camera was a No. 2 Bull’s-Eye, from Eastman Kodak. It was the first camera that could be loaded with film in daylight. Johnny would take this camera down to the beach to shoot the waves, and—often surreptitiously—those people drawn to the waves. On occasion he would succeed in getting some pretty teenage girl to pose on the sand with the ferris wheel of the boardwalk fairgrounds looming against the sky behind her.
But he knew he must venture down there again. He knew he couldn’t spend yet another day up here in the attic. He needed water again. He needed to…to… Johnny crept away from the window, and around the corner to the stairs. He hesitated at their head, as if he expected to see some terrible figure awaiting him in the gloom at the bottom. But there was no one. No one. Stealthily, he began to descend. The kitchen was silent and empty…empty except for the sound of a single fly, trapped buzzing against a windowpane.
He rolled off her. Lay on his back panting, sweat trickling down from his armpits, his heart galloping blindly like a horse on a treadmill inside him. “Not my fault if you can’t do it, mister,” grumbled Grace. ” “You’ll get it,” he said. And he’d get his own paycheck tomorrow. But he didn’t know if he were a pimp, procuring pleasure for his clients, or a prostitute, the means to that pleasure himself. Board stared at the woman’s radio, on a table by the bed. Its feelers did not waver as it played the Peerless Quartet’s “Somebody’s Waiting for Someone”, but a twittering static drifted in and out.