Adorable Daughter Quotes

I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realized, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

Your daughter is adorable. I've never seen such an alien duck in my entire life.

The worst slavery is that of heavily indoctrinated happy morons who adore their chains and cannot wait to thank their masters for the joy of their subservience.

THAT’S HOW MY STORY ENDS. With the loss of everyone I have ever loved. With me, in a big, beautiful Upper East Side apartment, missing everyone who ever meant anything to me. When you write the ending, Monique, make sure it’s clear that I don’t love this apartment, that I don’t care about all my money, that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if people think I’m a legend, that the adoration of millions of people never warmed my bed. When you write the ending, Monique, tell everyone that it is the people I miss. Tell everyone that I got it wrong. That I chose the wrong things most of the time. When you write the ending, Monique, make sure the reader understands that all I was ever really looking for was family. Make sure it’s clear that I found it. Make sure they know that I am heartbroken without it. Spell it out if you have to. Say that Evelyn Hugo doesn’t care if everyone forgets her name. Evelyn Hugo doesn’t care if everyone forgets she was ever alive. Better yet, remind them that Evelyn Hugo never existed. She was a person I made up for them. So that they would love me. Tell them that I was confused, for a very long time, about what love was. Tell them that I understand it now, and I don’t need their love anymore. Say to them, “Evelyn Hugo just wants to go home. It’s time for her to go to her daughter, and her lover, and her best friend, and her mother.” Tell them Evelyn Hugo says good-bye.

They're the perfect loving fam'ly, so adoring... And I love them ev'ry day of ev'ry week. So my son's a little shit, my husband's boring, And my daughter, though a genius, is a freak.

Understand, daughter, that the only reason for your existing was as a tribute to your uncle-father. You were meant to love him. I planned to teach you how to serve him and adore him. You would be his monument and his fortress against mortality. Forgive me. As soon as you arrived I realized that you were worth far more than that.

Coming back last time to the house she grew up in, Isabel had been reminded of the darkness that had descended with her brothers' deaths, how loss had leaked all over her mother's life like a stain. As a fourteen-year-old, Isabel had searched the dictionary. She knew that if a wife lost a husband, there was a whole new word to describe who she was: she was now a widow. A husband became a widower. But if a parent loss a child, there was no special label for their grief. They were still just a mother or a father, even if they no longer had a son or daughter. That seemed odd. As to her own status, she wondered whether she was still technically a sister, now that her adored brothers had died.

When I look into your eyes, I see everything I want and need. I wake up every day excited because I know I’m going to see you that day and be with you that night. And in between I get to spend time with you and our beautiful daughter. Every second of every minute of every day, month, and year with you has been perfect. I love you. I adore you. And I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy.

My mom adored her. She called Belly her secret daughter. She looked forward to seeing her all year. Steven, even though he gave her a hard time, he was really protective of her. Everyone took care of Belly, she just didn’t know it. She was too busy looking at Conrad.

The students adore your father,' a perfumed woman said to me. 'Aren't you lucky to live with such a charming man!' 'He's even more charming at home,' Mom said. 'Isn't he, Bea? He rides a unicycle through the house -' '- even up and down the stairs,' I added. 'He juggles eggs as he makes breakfast every morning -' '- which he serves to us in bed of course,' I said. '- and pulls fragrant bouquets out of his ass,' Mom finished. 'He's just a joy.

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

The car was on the FDR drive now and, turning her head, she glanced out at the bleak brown buildings of the projects that stretched for blocks along the drive. Something inside her sank at the sight of all that sameness, and she suddenly felt defeated. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. In the past year, she'd started experiencing these moments of desperate emptiness, as if nothing really mattered, nothing was ever going to change, there was nothing new; and she could see her life stretching before her--one endless long day after the next, in which every day was essentially the same. Meanwhile, time was marching on, and all that was happening to her was that she was getting older and smaller, and one day she would be no bigger than a dot, and then she would simply disappear. Poof! Like a small leaf burned up under a magnifying glass in the sun. These feelings were shocking to her, because she'd never experienced world-weariness before. She'd never had time. All her life, she'd been striving and striving to become this thing that was herself--the entity that was Nico O'Neilly. And then, one morning, time had caught up with her and she had woken up and realized that she was there. She had arrived at her destination, and she had everything she'd worked so hard for: a stunning career, a loving (well, sort of) husband, whom she respected, and a beautiful eleven-year-old daughter whom she adored. She should have been thrilled. But instead, she felt tired. Like all those things belonged to someone else.

She would always feel this wild girl was the truest of any of the people she had already been: adored daughter, bourgeois priss, rebel, runaway, dope-fiend San Francisco hippie; or all the people she would later be: mother, nurse, religious fanatic, prematurely old woman. Vivienne was a human onion, and when I came home at twenty eight years old on the day the monster died, I was afraid that the Baptist freak she had peeled down to was her true, acrid, tear-inducing core.

And there is his three-year-old daughter, who runs around wearing nothing but a rhinestone necklace (who wouldn’t, if they could?).

A whore Ailean may have been, but a loving, caring whore who adored his offspring and mate.

Let me adore The whole being of you.

What is was to be the youngest of three--what luck to be born into a jumbly, rowdy group of bigger people and be simply adored.

By the fridge, Lily holds a sleepy toddler in a panda onesie, and she whispers quietly with Lo. He has this look like he’s half-listening but really he’s thinking about how adorable his wife fucking is, especially with his daughter right there. I know how this’ll go so I don’t wait around to watch. He’ll tease her by leaning in for a kiss, only to stick his tongue in Lily’s ear. She’ll whisper-hiss his name and then slug his shoulder. He’ll mock wince. They’ll look infatuated with each other, remembering how many years they’ve spent. How far their lives have come. How much love they’ve shared. Their romance has never changed. We all thank the fucking world for that because there is no Lily without Lo. There is no Lo without Lily

This old dead hero had one only daughter left of his race; a beauty that, to describe her truly, one need say only, she was female to the noble male; the beautiful black Venus to our young Mars; as charming in her person as he, and of delicate virtues. I have seen an hundred white men sighing after her, and making a thousand vows at her feet, all vain, and unsuccessful; and she was, indeed, too great for any, but a prince of her own nation to adore.

Catharine’s office had two plants, three chairs, two desks, one hutch, six personal photos in standing frames, one of those clichéd motivational posters on the wall that had two crows tearing out the insides of a reasonably sized forest cat with the cheesy inspirational caption, “Unremittingly, you must stare into the sun,” and a clay paperweight most likely made by Catharine’s daughter (it was signed by your seed in adorable small-child handwriting).

And what happens to daughters whose mothers betray them? They don’t become huggable like Sadie, Taiwo thinks. They don’t become giggly, adorable like Ling. They grow shells. Become hardened. They stop being girls. Though they look like girls and act like girls and flirt like girls and kiss like girls—really, they’re generals, commandos at war, riding out at first light to preempt further strikes. With an army behind them, their talents their horsemen, their brilliance and beauty and anything else they may have at their disposal dispatched into battle to capture the castle, to bring back the Honor. Of course it doesn’t work. For they burn down the village in search of the safety they lost, every time, Taiwo knows.

For a moment she was truly terrified. This was Abbadon the Cruel. The Angel of Destruction. He could and would destroy her if he had to. If he felt like it. He had destroyed worlds before. He had decimated Paradise in the name of the Morningstar. She trembled in his grasp. All his gentleness, all his kindness, all the bright shining gorgeousness of his love, he had always given to someone else. He had adored Gabrielle, had worshiped her, had written her poems and sang her songs, and for Schuyler there were novels and love notes and sweet kisses and furtive tender meetings by a fireplace. But for his twin, Azrael, he had shown nothing but his anger and violence. His strength and destruction. He saved the best of himself for those who did not deserve it. Never showed his true face to those damnable Daughters of the Light. For Azrael, there was only darkness and annihilation. Rape and carnage. War and pillage. A tear escaped from her eye and glittered in the moonlight.

She can’t possibly be evil, she’s adorable.

The St. Vincents arrived with their daughter Phoebe, a red-haired infant with an alarmingly changeable temperament. One moment the child was placid and adorable. The next, she was a squalling devil-spawn who could only be soothed by the sound of her father’s voice. “There, darling,” St. Vincent had been known to coo into the infant’s ear. “Has someone displeased you? Ignored you? Oh, the insolence. My poor princess shall have anything she wants…” And, appeased by her father’s outrageous spoiling, Phoebe would settle into hiccupping smiles.

But it did not stop her from wishing that it had all been different. Wishing that she had had the chance to be everything daughters of earls were born to be. Wishing that she'd been raised without a care in the world. Without a doubt in her head that it would someday be her day to sparkle; that she would one day be courted properly - by a man who wanted her for her, not as a spoil from a game of chance. Wishing that she were not so very alone. Not that wishing had ever helped.

In Darcy, Elizabeth would have a husband who would adore her, but who was stubborn enough to refuse to give in to her. Elizabeth would have a husband she respected and loved, if she could ever bend her stiff neck enough to confess to it. Bennet could not have wished for anything more for his daughter.

He was swaying back and forth with their daughter gazing adoringly into his face from the cradle of his arms. “I’m going to do my best to make sure your life is awesome, but it won’t always be. Those are the times you need to dance in the kitchen the most. It’s good for your soul.” Beth sighed and leaned her head against the corner of the wall, as enchanted as Lily by the soft, tender timbre of his voice. “You don’t even need music,” he told Lily. “You can dance to the music in your head. Hopefully not to that country-and-western shit your mother listens to, though. Oh… damn. Don’t say shit, Lily-bean. Or if you do and Mommy hears you, don’t tell her you heard it from me, okay? Tell her Uncle Mike said it.

In a country where youth is adored, we lost ours before we were out of our twenties. We learned to accept death there, and it erased our sense of immortality. We met our human frailties, the dark side of ourselves, face-to-face … The war destroyed our faith, betrayed our trust, and dropped us outside the mainstream of our society. We still don’t fully belong. I wonder if we ever will. —WINNIE SMITH AMERICAN DAUGHTER GONE

A girl like that does not deserve to be married to a man she does not love!” The doctor stared for a moment, and then burst into quite inexplicable laughter. “Are we still speaking of Helen?” he wheezed after a moment. “Yes,” snapped the matron, glaring at him. “Dear me,” said the doctor, removing his glasses and dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Such a circumstance would be very unfortunate – very, very.” The matron huffed. “The poor child is trapped in a loveless marriage – trust me. I’m a woman.” “The not-at-all-to-be-pitied girl is married to a man she adores,” the doctor said, smiling. “Trust me. I’m a man, with a wife and three daughters.” “Adores my eye!” The doctor replaced his spectacles and spoke very patiently: “Miss Bingham, only a woman who loves remembers what kind of aircraft her man flies.

From the first day I met his daughter, all I could think about was snuffling up under that sweet dimity like some bad old bear, just crawling up into that honeycomb, nose twitching, and never come out of there till early spring. Think that’s disgusting? Dammit, I do, too, but that’s the way male animals are made. Those peculiar delights were created to entrap us, and anybody who disapproves can take it up with God. In their wondrous capacity of knowing the Lord’s mind, churchly folks will tell you that He would purely hate to hear such dirty talk. My idea is, He wouldn’t mind it half so much as they would have us think, because even according to their own queer creed, we are God’s handiwork, created in His image, lust, piss, shit, and all. Without that magnificent Almighty lust that we mere mortals dare to call a sin, there wouldn’t be any more mortals, and God’s grand design for the human race, if He exists and if He ever had one, would turn to dust, and dust unto dust, forever and amen. Other creatures would step up and take over, realizing that man was too weak and foolish to properly reproduce himself. I nominate hogs to inherit the Earth, because hogs love to eat any old damned thing God sets in front of them, and they’re ever so grateful for God’s green earth even when it’s all rain and mud, and they just plain adore to feed and fuck and frolic and fulfill God’s holy plan. For all we know, it’s hogs which are created in God’s image, who’s to say?

Marcelian Piaffus adored the heirloom's macabre biography, she could tell. Strangely enough, he had a disregard for its severity despite his beliefs, especially in the hands of a child, and even though Estefania had always been aware that darkness could latch itself onto objects, having grown up among unspeakable atrocities, she decided her daughter had too much grit to decline into madness.

I adjure you, daughters of Jerusalem, Adore to weeping, Love to laughing, Desire to praising. Tickle, giggle, kiss! Adonai my God, For one moment in love, Let alone a thousand, Let alone my life, For the honor of raising and loving Children in love, Praise of You is ever upon my lips.

BLESS THE MOON Forgive us, we blamed you for floods, for the flush of blood, for men who are also wolves, even though you could pull the tide in by her hair, we tell everyone we walked all over you. We blame you for the dark, as if you had a choice, performing just beyond the glass, distant and adored, near but alone, cold and unimaginable following us home. We use you to see our blue bodies beneath your damp light, we let you watch, swollen against the glass as we move against one another like fish.

oh, dear women I adore, thank you for always going on, for your actions give to me too, hope which is why in your honour I wrote this song.

She was one of the lucky ones. A husband who adored her, a happy daughter, a beautiful home.

No guy should have that kind of power over you. No matter who he is or how much everyone adores him. Or how much you might still want him.

To know Dad was to love him... He was the sun and the moon to those fortunate enough to have been in his orbit. Underneath that polished Hollywood veneer beat the heart of a man who came from an industrial engine of steel mills and sweat - from hard-working, wholesome people... Dad adored his wives and doted on his many children, who gladly reciprocated that affection.

We should look at every woman as we look to our daughters. It is then we find the will to empower, a love that adores & the courage to protect. It is then & only then - we give all women true respect.

Let us remark by the way, that to be blind and to be loved, is, in fact, one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness upon this earth, where nothing is complete. To have continually at one's side a woman, a daughter, a sister, a charming being, who is there because you need her and because she cannot do without you; to know that we are indispensable to a person who is necessary to us; to be able to incessantly measure one's affection by the amount of her presence which she bestows on us, and to say to ourselves, "Since she consecrates the whole of her time to me, it is because I possess the whole of her heart"; to behold her thought in lieu of her face; to be able to verify the fidelity of one being amid the eclipse of the world; to regard the rustle of a gown as the sound of wings; to hear her come and go, retire, speak, return, sing, and to think that one is the centre of these steps, of this speech; to manifest at each instant one's personal attraction; to feel one's self all the more powerful because of one's infirmity; to become in one's obscurity, and through one's obscurity, the star around which this angel gravitates,—few felicities equal this. The supreme happiness of life consists in the conviction that one is loved; loved for one's own sake—let us say rather, loved in spite of one's self; this conviction the blind man possesses. To be served in distress is to be caressed. Does he lack anything? No. One does not lose the sight when one has love. And what love! A love wholly constituted of virtue! There is no blindness where there is certainty. Soul seeks soul, gropingly, and finds it. And this soul, found and tested, is a woman. A hand sustains you; it is hers: a mouth lightly touches your brow; it is her mouth: you hear a breath very near you; it is hers. To have everything of her, from her worship to her pity, never to be left, to have that sweet weakness aiding you, to lean upon that immovable reed, to touch Providence with one's hands, and to be able to take it in one's arms,—God made tangible,—what bliss! The heart, that obscure, celestial flower, undergoes a mysterious blossoming. One would not exchange that shadow for all brightness! The angel soul is there, uninterruptedly there; if she departs, it is but to return again; she vanishes like a dream, and reappears like reality. One feels warmth approaching, and behold! she is there. One overflows with serenity, with gayety, with ecstasy; one is a radiance amid the night. And there are a thousand little cares. Nothings, which are enormous in that void. The most ineffable accents of the feminine voice employed to lull you, and supplying the vanished universe to you. One is caressed with the soul. One sees nothing, but one feels that one is adored. It is a paradise of shadows.

But why should you wish to leave a state of society which you so politely allow to be more felicitous than your own?” “Oh, Aph-Lin! My answer is plain. Lest in naught, and unwittingly, I should betray your hospitality; lest, in the caprice of will which in our world is proverbial among the other sex, and from which even a Gy is not free, your adorable daughter should deign to regard me, though a Tish, as if I were a civilised An, and—and—and—-“ “Court you as her spouse,” put in Aph-Lin, gravely, and without any visible sign of surprise or displeasure.

The willingness to be slain for Christ (who is adored as the essential divinity of all the sons and daughters of God), in the sense of self-surrender to the Elect One, is what the path and the teachings of the Great White Brotherhood* are all about. * The word white refers not to race but to the aura, the halo that surrounds these immortals.

To explain that she knew how marriages worked, understood the petty grievances that could build up. She should tell Charlie that it didn’t matter. That if you loved someone, you should do everything you could to make it work because the person you adored more than anyone else in the world could complain of a sore throat one day and be dead the next.

Now I understand Isabel's slavish loyalty to George. Now I understand the passionate bond between the king and the queen. Now I even understand the queen's mother Jacquetta dying of heartbreak at the loss of the man she married for love. I learn that to love a man whose interests are mine, whose passion is given freely and openly to me, and whose battle-hardened young lithe body lies beside me every night as his only joy, is to utterly change my life. I was married before; but I was never shaken and touched and puzzled and adored before. I was a wife but I was no lover. With Richard, I become wife and lover, counselor and friend, partner in all things, comrade in arms, fellow traveler. With Richard, I become a woman, not a girl, I become a wife.

You may adore Love You Forever, but I hear it as a story about an overbearing and smothering mother who infantilizes her son and can only tell him she loves him when he is fast asleep. I also contend that she drugs his cocoa. And that when the man's baby daughter wakes up sixteen years later and finds him fondling her in her room, she will be calling 911 and going into therapy.

My child, he had a child. My daughter, he had a daughter. She was just old enough to cook a holiday meal, and do a little sewing for himS in those days he merely sailed between Mexico and Peru and hundreds of times she waves him farewell or welcome. We have no way of know whether she was more beautiful or intelligent than the thousands of other girls that lived about him, but she was his. I suppose it seems ignoble to you that a great oak of a man should go about the world like a blind man about an empty house merely because a chit of a girl has been withdrawn from it. No, no, you cannot understand this, my adored one, but I understand and grow pale...You will laught at me, but I think he goes about the hemispheres to pass the time between now and his old age.

Here was what I wanted to happen when I walked through the door after my first real date and my first ever kiss. I wanted my mom to say, “Dear God, Meg, you’re glowing. Sit and tell me about this boy. He let you borrow his jacket? That’s so adorable.” Instead, I came off the high of that day by writing a letter to my dead brother and doing yoga between my twin beds, trying to forget my absent mother.

It's not you it's me' she couldn't use that line. Even though it really was her and not him, everyone thought that line really meant, 'it's not me. It's definitely you.'  There was still a part of her that thought perhaps she shouldn't do it at all. In Andrew she had all the raw ingredients for a perfect life. Here was a grown-up, good-looking, solvent, generous, warm-hearted man who adored her. A man who adored her even when she looked like the loch ness monsters little sister and had a terrible temper to match. It didn't take a huge leap of imagination to see Andrew standing at the top of the aisle, looking back at lou walking towards him with a grin as wide as the English channel. She could see him painting the nursery yellow; pushing a pram that contained two lovely brown haired twins (one boy, one girl); presenting her woth an eternity ring on their tenth anniversary, taking the twins to school, teaching them how to play football on long, summer holidays in Tuscany, giving the daughter away at her own wedding, cosying up to Lou on the veranda of their perfect house as their retirement stretched ahead of them- a long straight road of well-planned for, financially comfortable and perpetually sunny days.  'oh god' Lou poured herself a vodka.

Every girl must decide whether to be true to herself or true to the world. Every girl must decide whether to settle for adoration or fight for love. There on the bed, in her pigtails and pain, my daughter was me - the little girl I once was, the woman I am now, still struggling to answer the questions: How can I be expansive and free and still be loved? Am I going to be a lady or am I going to be fully human? Do I trust the unfolding and continue to grow, or do I shut all of this down so I fit?

Critical or adoring scholars and readers might agree about one thing: the Little House books are not history. They are not, as Wilder and her daughter had claimed, true in every particular. Yet the truth about our history is in them. The truth about settlement, about homesteading, about farming is there, if we look for it—embedded in the novels’ conflicted, nostalgic portrayal of transient joys and satisfactions, their astonishing feats of survival and jarring acts of dispossession, their deep yearning for security. Anyone who would ask where we came from, and why, must reckon with them.

And yet however much M. Vinteuil may have known of his daughter’s conduct it did not follow that his adoration of her grew any less. The facts of life do not penetrate to the sphere in which our beliefs are cherished; as it was not they that engendered those beliefs, so they are powerless to destroy them; they can aim at them continual blows of contradiction and disproof without weakening them; and an avalanche of miseries and maladies coming, one after another, without interruption into the bosom of a family, will not make it lose faith in either the clemency of its God or the capacity of its physician.

Once in an art gallery, I came upon a painting of the Madonna holding her toddler in one arm and an open book in her opposite hand. Her eyes are turned toward her child as if she has just been torn from her reading. Heavily lidded, they exude a look of sweet adoring, but they also carry a wistful expression, the sigh of interruption, the veiled craving for her book pages. It was like observing a conflict at the hub of my existence. Baby or book. Children or writing. Motherhood or career. I bought the painting and hung it prominently in the living room. In secret, I sympathized with the self-actualizing side of the Madonna, feeling her perturbation at the child’s demands.

Do we need a Christmas present for her ladyship and Sonnet?” “Oh, they would like that,” Amanda said, kiting around on Louisa’s other hand. “They both eat carrots, and we’ve tons and tons of carrots in the root cellars. Papa doesn’t like carrots.” “However would you know such a thing?” “We don’t know such a thing,” Fleur said. “But we don’t like carrots, and if you think Papa doesn’t either, you won’t put them on our menus.” Amanda turned big blue eyes on Louisa. “That will mean more for Sonnet too.” “You are a pair of minxes. Their Graces will adore you, but nothing will preserve you from having to eat the occasional carrot. You must accept your fate with dignity.” Mention

That's how my story ends. With the loss of everyone I have ever loved. With me, in a big, beautiful Upper East Side apartment, missing everyone who ever meant anything to me. When you write the ending, Monique, make sure it’s clear that I don’t love this apartment, that I don’t care about all my money, that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if people think I’m a legend, that the adoration of millions of people never warmed my bed. When you write the ending, Monique, tell everyone that it is the people I miss. Tell everyone that I got it wrong. That I chose the wrong things most of the time. When you write the ending, Monique, make sure the reader understands that all I was ever really looking for was family. Make sure it’s clear that I found it. Make sure they know that I am heartbroken without it. Spell it out if you have to. Say that Evelyn Hugo doesn’t care if everyone forgets her name. Evelyn Hugo doesn’t care if everyone forgets she was ever alive. Better yet, remind them that Evelyn Hugo never existed. She was a person I made up for them. So that they would love me. Tell them that I was confused, for a very long time, about what love was. Tell them that I understand it now, and I don’t need their love anymore. Say to them, “Evelyn Hugo just wants to go home. It’s time for her to go to her daughter, and her lover, and her best friend, and her mother.” Tell them Evelyn Hugo says good-bye.

But to sell Flush was unthinkable. He was of the rare order of objects that cannot be associated with money. Was he not of the still rarer kind that, because they typify what is spiritual, what is beyond price, become a fitting token of the disinterestedness of friendship; may be offered in that spirit to a friend, if one is so lucky enough as to have one, who is more like a daughter than a friend; to a friend who lies secluded all through the summer months in a back bedroom in Wimpole Street, to a friend who is no other than England’s foremost poetess, the brilliant, the doomed, the adored Elizabeth Barrett herself? Such were the thoughts that came more and more frequently to Miss Mitford as she watched Flush rolling and scampering in the sunshine; as she sat by the couch of Miss Barrett in her dark, ivy-shaded London bedroom. Yes; Flush was worthy of Miss Barrett; Miss Barrett was worthy of Flush. The sacrifice was a great one; but the sacrifice must be made. Thus, one day, probably in the early summer of the year 1842, a remarkable couple might have been seen taking their way down Wimpole Street—a very short, stout, shabby, elderly lady, with a bright red face and bright white hair, who led by the chain a very spirited, very inquisitive, very well-bred golden cocker spaniel puppy. They walked almost the whole length of the street until at last they paused at No. 50. Not without trepidation, Miss Mitford the bell.

She cuddled the baby closer and kissed his ear. Kit turned to swing his little paw at her, but Sophie drew back, only to kiss his ear again when he dropped his hand. “That child likes to play.” And Sophie adored to play with him, to lavish love and attention upon him. “He’s been singing today, as well,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa with the infant. “Wonderful baby songs, odes to his toes, madrigals to his knuckles. I wonder when he’ll begin to speak. Mrs. Harrad will no doubt know such things.” She was Lady Sophia this morning, a woman with no recollection of the glorious intimacies they’d shared. A duke’s daughter determined on her cause. He sat beside her, missing plain Sophie Windham with a fierce ache. “The

The infant, Isabelle, had been born to Annabelle and Simon Hunt approximately ten months earlier. Surely no baby had ever been doted on more, by every one in the household including her father. Contrary to all expectations the virile and masculine Mr. Hunt had not been at all disappointed that his firstborn was a girl. He adored the child, showing no compunction about holding her in public, cooing to her in a way that fathers seldom dared. Hunt had even instructed Annabelle to produce more daughters in the future, claiming roguishly that it had always been his ambition to be loved by many women. As might have been expected, the baby was exceptionally beautiful- it would be a physical impossibility for Annabelle to produce a less than spectacular offspring.

Whilst I adore this ineffable life which is at my heart, it will not condescend to gossip with me, it will not announce to me any particulars of science, it will not enter into the details of my biography, and say to me why I have a son and daughters born to me, or why my son dies in his sixth year of life. Herein, then I have this latent omniscience coexistent with omnigorance. Moreover, whilst this Deity glows at the heart, and by his unlimited presentiments gives me all Power, I know that to-morrow will be as this day, I am a dwarf, and I remain a dwarf. That is to say, I believe in Fate. As long as I am weak, I shall talk of Fate; whenever the God fills me with his fullness, I shall see the disappearance of Fate. I am defeated all the time; yet to Victory I am born.

The bold, black masked pup goes to a surgeon in Santa Barara with two young daughters. The surgeon’s wife, Jill, takes one look at the pup’s confident gait and names him “Brag.” He’s a handsome fellow with over-sized paws and a serious disposition. The official name for his coloring is sable, which means he has as much black on him as he does brown. Brag grows deeply attached to his new family, never straying far from the little girls and always with one eye on Jill, whom he adores. Before Brag is a year old, Jill’s husband – an amateur pilot – hops in his plain and flies to Bakersfield for business. On his way home later that night, with two friends seated behind him, he miscalculates his position and flies into a mountain north of Santa Barbara. The plan disintegrates on impact. No one survives

When Mrs. Darling came into the kitchen it was with a tentative step and furtive looks. "How is your little pet?" she eventually asked. "What? Oh, he's absolutely adorable," Wendy said, remembering to toss Snowball a tidbit of mutton. For Nana she reserved the bone. "You can... take him with you, you know. To Ireland. He would be a delightful little travel companion." For a moment, just a moment, Wendy looked at her mother- really looked at her, steadily and clearly. "You would never send the boys away." The statement fell hard and final and full of more meaning than anything that had ever been said in the kitchen before. "But they didn't write the... fantasies...." her mother said quietly. Then Mr. Darling came in, loud and blustery, talking up Irish butter and clean country air. Mother and daughter both ignored him.

On our flight back from Arizona where we adopted our daughter three years after our ungreen one-headed son a stewardess ... paused to to adore the little girl my wife was holding. The woman was very attractive and seemed happy and easy with herself - confident enough to say to my wife 'Well congratulations and my don't you look terrific too.' My wife said 'Well we've just adopted her.' And the stewardess said 'How wonderful Congratulations again I was adopted too.' Happily the enthusiastic remark was not lost on our three-year-old boy nor was it lost on him that in Pheonix we had stayed in a close to luxurious resort hotel. He didn't know or care about the dreary heavy rain that fell in Atlanta when he came into our lives - all he knew about adoption at this point really was that it involved a warm whirpool tub cornucopian buffet breakfasts and a fascinating differently private-partsed baby.

One of the bonds between Lily and me is that we both suffer with our teeth. She is twenty years my junior but we wear bridges, each of us. Mine are at the sides, hers are in front. She has lost the four upper incisors. It happened while she was still in high school, out playing golf with her father, whom she adored. The poor old guy was a lush and far too drunk to be out on a golf course that day. Without looking or given warning, he drove from the first tee and on the backswing struck his daughter. It always kills me to think of that cursed hot July golf course, and this drunk from the plumbing supply business, and the girl of fifteen bleeding. Damn these weak drunks! Damn these unsteady men! I can't stand these clowns who go out in public as soon as they get swacked to show how broken-hearted they are. But Lily would never hear a single word against him and wept for him sooner than for herself. She carries his photo in her wallet.

QUEEN OF THE SAND "Oh father, behold the desert queen" and I looked and I saw an inscription but age deprived my understanding. My daughter cried out, "Oh father, King of the Desert, behold she who bears my name". Then I realise it was Zara Muhammad The Queen of the Sand. The mercy of princesses. The sons delight and the father's pride. Oh daughter of Arab, what bringeth thou thee to the Kingdom were daughters are enthroned, where women rule, and where the sons of men marvel at the beauty of the stars. The Sand Queen replied, "It the glory every daughter of the Sand has spoken of brought me this far" "What glory, oh Adored Zara?" I asked and she roared with voice of a bird rejoicing over showers of seeds and she said "You my Lord and King, for your beauty has reached the ends of the world" It was then I realise that this poem was written not only for Zara Muhammed but also for Zara Vote and Victor Vote. Greetings of great Great Zara, Queen of the Sand. Poem by Victor Vote for Zara Muhammed

Jason, it’s a pleasure.” Instead of being in awe or “fangirling” over one of the best catchers in the country, my dad acts normal and doesn’t even mention the fact that Jason is a major league baseball player. “Going up north with my daughter?” “Yes, sir.” Jason sticks his hands in his back pockets and all I can focus on is the way his pecs press against the soft fabric of his shirt. “A-plus driver here in case you were wondering. No tickets, I enjoy a comfortable position of ten and two on the steering wheel, and I already established the rule in the car that it’s my playlist we’re listening to so there’s no fighting over music. Also, since it’s my off season, I took a siesta earlier today so I was fresh and alive for the drive tonight. I packed snacks, the tank is full, and there is water in reusable water bottles in the center console for each of us. Oh, and gum, in case I need something to chew if this one falls asleep.” He thumbs toward me. “I know how to use my fists if a bear comes near us, but I’m also not an idiot and know if it’s brown, hit the ground, if it’s black, fight that bastard back.” Oh my God, why is he so adorable? “I plan on teaching your daughter how to cook a proper meal this weekend, something she can make for you and your wife when you’re in town.” “Now this I like.” My dad chuckles. Chuckles. At Jason. I think I’m in an alternate universe. “I saw this great place that serves apparently the best pancakes in Illinois, so Sunday morning, I’d like to go there. I’d also like to hike, and when it comes to the sleeping arrangements, I was informed there are two bedrooms, and I plan on using one of them alone. No worries there.” Oh, I’m worried . . . that he plans on using the other one. “Well, looks like you’ve covered everything. This is a solid gentleman, Dottie.” I know. I really know. “Are you good? Am I allowed to leave now?” “I don’t know.” My dad scratches the side of his jaw. “Just from how charismatic this man is and his plans, I’m thinking I should take your place instead.” “I’m up for a bro weekend,” Jason says, his banter and decorum so easy. No wonder he’s loved so much. “Then I wouldn’t have to see the deep eye-roll your daughter gives me on a constant basis.” My dad leans in and says, “She gets that from me, but I will say this, I can’t possibly see myself eye-rolling with you. Do you have extra clothes packed for me?” “Do you mind sharing underwear with another man? Because I’m game.” My dad’s head falls back as he laughs. “I’ve never rubbed another man’s underwear on my junk, but never say never.” “Ohhh-kay, you two are done.” I reach up and press a kiss to my dad’s cheek. “We are leaving.” I take Jason by the arm and direct him back to the car. From over his shoulder, he mouths to my dad to call him, which my dad replies with a thumbs up. Ridiculous. Hilarious. When we’re saddled up in the car, I let out a long breath and shift my head to the side so I can look at him. Sincerely I say, “Sorry about that.” With the biggest smile on his face, his hand lands on my thigh. He gives it a good squeeze and says, “Don’t apologize, that was fucking awesome.

I think we all collectively have gone a little crazy. We worry about the wrong things. I have an acquaintance, Christy, whose twelve–year–old son managed to get into a very violent PG–13 movie. I don’t know how many machine–gunnings, explosions, and killings this boy wound up witnessing. As I recall, the boy had nightmares for a week afterward. That disturbed his mother—but not as much as if her son had stumbled into a different kind of movie. “At least there wasn’t any sex,” she said with dead–serious concern. “No,” I said, “probably not a single bare breast.” I didn’t add that most societies do not regard the adult female breast as being primarily an object of sexual desire. After all, it’s just a big gland that makes milk in order to feed hungry babies. “You know what I’m talking about,” she snapped. “I mean graphic sex.” We were sitting in a café drinking tea. She cut off the volume of her speech at the end of her sentence, whispering and exaggerating the consonants of S–E–X as if she needed me to read her lips—as if giving voice to this word might disturb our neighbors and brand her as a deviant. “I don’t think children should see that kind of thing,” she added. “What should children see?” I asked her. I am not arguing that we should let our children buy tickets to raunchy movies. I never let my daughters bring home steamy videos or surf the Internet for porn. But something is wrong when sex becomes a dirty word that we don’t even want our children to hear. Why must we regard almost anything sexual as tantamount to obscene? I think many of us are like Christy. We wouldn’t want our children—even our very sexual teenagers—to see certain kinds of movies, even if they happened to be erotic masterpieces, true works of art. It wouldn’t matter if a movie gave us a wonderful scene of a wife and a husband very lovingly making love with the conscious intention of engendering new life. It wouldn’t matter that sex is life, and therefore must be regarded as sacred as anything could possibly be. It wouldn’t even matter that not one of us could have come into the world but for the sexual union of our fathers and our mothers. If a movie portrayed a man and woman in the ecstatic dance of love—actually showed naked bellies and breasts, burning lips and adoring eyes and the glistening, impassioned organs of sex—most people I know would rather their children watch the vile action movie. They would rather their “innocent” sons and daughters behold the images of bloody, blasted bodies, torture, murder, and death.

Maybe tangled will be a spectacular rump. maybe i will adore it: it could happen. But one thing is for sure: tangled will not be rapunzel. And thats too bad , because rapunzel is an specially layered and relevant fairytale, less about the love between a man and a woman than the misguided attempts of a mother trying to protect her daughter from (what she perceives ) as the worlds evils. The tale, you may recall, begins with a mother-to-bes yearning for the taste of rapunzel, a salad green she spies growing in the garden of the sorceress who happens to live next door. The womans craving becomes so intense , she tells her husband that if he doesn't fetch her some, she and their unborn baby will die. So he steals into the baby's yard, wraps his hands around a plant, and, just as he pulls... she appears in a fury. The two eventually strike a bargain: the mans wife can have as much of the plant as she wants- if she turns over her baby to the witch upon its birth. `i will take care for it like a mother,` the sorceress croons (as if that makes it all right). Then again , who would you rather have as a mom: the woman who would do anything for you or the one who would swap you in a New York minute for a bowl of lettuce? Rapunzel grows up, her hair grows down, and when she is twelve-note that age-Old Mother Gothel , as she calls the witch. leads her into the woods, locking her in a high tower which offers no escape and no entry except by scaling the girls flowing tresses. One day, a prince passes by and , on overhearing Rapunzel singing, falls immediately in love (that makes Rapunzel the inverse of Ariel- she is loved sight unseen because of her voice) . He shinnies up her hair to say hello and , depending on the version you read, they have a chaste little chat or get busy conceiving twins. Either way, when their tryst is discovered, Old Mother Gothel cries, `you wicked child! i thought i had separated you from the world, and yet you deceived me!` There you have it : the Grimm`s warning to parents , centuries before psychologists would come along with their studies and measurements, against undue restriction . Interestingly the prince cant save Rapuzel from her foster mothers wrath. When he sees the witch at the top of the now-severed braids, he jumps back in surprise and is blinded by the bramble that breaks his fall. He wanders the countryside for an unspecified time, living on roots and berries, until he accidentally stumbles upon his love. She weeps into his sightless eyes, restoring his vision , and - voila!- they rescue each other . `Rapunzel` then, wins the prize for the most egalitarian romance, but that its not its only distinction: it is the only well-known tale in which the villain is neither maimed nor killed. No red-hot shoes are welded to the witch`s feet . Her eyes are not pecked out. Her limbs are not lashed to four horses who speed off in different directions. She is not burned at the stake. Why such leniency? perhaps because she is not, in the end, really evil- she simply loves too much. What mother has not, from time to time, felt the urge to protect her daughter by locking her in a tower? Who among us doesn't have a tiny bit of trouble letting our children go? if the hazel branch is the mother i aspire to be, then Old Mother Gothel is my cautionary tale: she reminds us that our role is not to keep the world at bay but to prepare our daughters so they can thrive within it. That involves staying close but not crowding them, standing firm in one`s values while remaining flexible. The path to womanhood is strewn with enchantment , but it also rifle with thickets and thorns and a big bad culture that threatens to consume them even as they consume it. The good news is the choices we make for our toodles can influence how they navigate it as teens. I`m not saying that we can, or will, do everything `right,` only that there is power-magic-in awareness.

The Beautiful Ones I hear their voice: They call out to me. I heed their cries: They cry out to me. I harken to their plight: They look out for me everyday. I hear their suffering. The Beautiful Ones. The Lovely Ones. The Blessed Ones. My mind is one with them. My heart is one with them. My soul is one with them. The Good Lord loves them. The Good Lord adores them. The Good Lord honors them. The Good Lord protects them. The Good Lord will compensate them. He heard their cries. He witnessed their suffering. He answered their prayers. “Now they will wipe away their tears, now they will laugh, now they will rejoice. I am their portion,” says the Lord of Hosts. He declares, “You will receive double for your trouble.” He proclaims, “You will receive triple for your misery.” He affirms, “You will be fully compensated for all your pains.” Beautiful Ones, oh Beautiful Ones, how you are cherished. Beautiful Ones, oh Beautiful Ones, how you are treasured. Beautiful Ones, oh Beautiful Ones, how you are loved! More valuable are you to Yahweh than seven worlds: You are His sons, He declares it in the heavens. More prized are you to Elohim than seven skies: You are His daughters, He proclaims it in the heavens. More favoured are you to Adonai than seven suns: You are His children, He affirms it in the heavens. You are His now: Rejoice, oh Beautiful Ones, you are cherished. You are His tomorrow: Rejoice, oh Beautiful Ones, you are treasured. You are His forever. Rejoice, oh Beautiful Ones, you are loved!

Seeing her mama wiggle and swagger like that always reminded Sugar of her own shortcomings in this department. She knew the sort of daughter Etta wished she had- another wiggler and swaggerer- but that flirtatious behavior just didn't come naturally to Sugar. She wasn't a tomboy, exactly. Her mother would have shot her rather than let that happen, but Sugar didn't particularly like parties or shopping trips or lengthy visits to the beauty parlor, all of which her mother adored. She preferred helping her grandfather with his bees on his orchard farther up the Ashley River; she always had. She liked reading books on her own or walking the family dog, Miss Pickles. Worse, she couldn't manage high heels no matter how hard she tried, which was an utter disgrace to her southern roots. The pretty only daughter of a well-known beauty married to one of the city's wealthier sons should by rights follow directly in her mother's footsteps in nothing less than three-inch stilettos, as far as Etta was concerned. But she and Sugar were cut from different cloth.

Tell me something about you I don’t know.” “Heavens, Nathaniel, I’m sure you know everything.” “I do not.” He rested his elbow on his one raised knee, while the other leg folded underneath it. “If I did, then I would have known all about the infamous James Pigley, so I must assume there are more secrets to you that need discovering.” “Secrets?” Her voice cracked. Chest heaving, she turned away. Did he have to use such a word? She struggled to find something within her stalled mind to ease the suffocating silence.  “Come now Kitty, don’t play coy with me.” Nathaniel’s inviting timbre woke her from the shadows. The playful glint in his face pulled a full smile from her lips when he continued. “Here is what I know of Miss Katherine Campbell formerly of Boston. She enjoys Shakespeare and is a gifted cook. I know she is fascinated with medicine and I know her political standings. She loves God and family...” He grinned wider, a gentle kind of grin that sparkled in his eyes. “But I desire to know more.” The warmth in his stare eased around Kitty as real as if it had been an embrace, soothing away the tension that clung to her neck and shoulders. She leaned one hand on the ground and rested against it. “You’re very kind, Nathaniel, but I don’t know what to tell. I’m quite ordinary.” “Ordinary? I should say not.” Nathaniel reached for a small stick and played with it in his fingers before he snapped it in half and tossed the pieces in the water. He cast his eyes her direction and glared playfully. “No matter. If you choose to be so demure then I shall ask questions. Do you enjoy the ocean?” “Aye, the seaside is very calming, but I don’t care for boats.” He nodded with his lips pursed in thought. “I’ll keep that in mind. Do you play an instrument?” “Nay, much to my mother’s disappointment.” She sighed and looked heavenward with a tiny laugh, remembering the hours of practice that produced embarrassingly little results. Kitty sat up and hugged her knees. “Do you enjoy reading?”  Nathaniel scowled. “This conversation isn’t supposed to be about me.” “Well, do you?” She grinned wider. He shook his head with a disapproving lift to his brow, but the smoldering grin expressed his merriment. “I enjoy reading. Especially Milton.” “Milton? I adore Milton.

Thomas led the way, but promptly stopped and pointed at the table. “Is that carrot pudding?” The glee in his face made Kitty want to toss the infernal pudding in the fire. She pursed her lips playfully and glared. “Aye, I adore carrot pudding. Or didn’t you know?”  Removing her apron, Kitty followed Eliza toward the parlor ignoring Thomas’s jesting as she walked upstairs. “Are you sure it’s the pudding you like—and not the man that will come to eat it?” His gentle laughter rumbled behind her as she and Eliza hurried upstairs.

Cassie. My daughter. A seven-year-old with a personality that was reminiscent of tropical weather – sunny, warm, adorable, good for the soul, but with occasional hurricanes and tornados which necessitated boarding up the windows and hiding under a bed until they passed.

O my Beloved! this was but the prelude of graces yet greater which Thou didst desire to heap upon me. Let me remind Thee of them to-day, and forgive my folly if I venture to tell Thee once more of my hopes, and my heart's well nigh infinite longings—forgive me and grant my desire, that it may be well with my soul. To be Thy Spouse, O my Jesus, to be a daughter of Carmel, and by my union with Thee to be the mother of souls, should not all this content me? And yet other vocations make themselves felt—I feel called to the Priesthood and to the Apostolate—I would be a Martyr, a Doctor of the Church. I should like to accomplish the most heroic deeds—the spirit of the Crusader burns within me, and I long to die on the field of battle in defence of Holy Church. The vocation of a Priest! With what love, my Jesus, would I bear Thee in my hand, when my words brought Thee down from Heaven! With what love would I give Thee to souls! And yet, while longing to be a Priest, I admire and envy the humility of St. Francis of Assisi, and am drawn to imitate him by refusing the sublime dignity of the Priesthood. How reconcile these opposite tendencies? Like the Prophets and Doctors, I would be a light unto souls, I would travel to every land to preach Thy name, O my Beloved, and raise on heathen soil the glorious standard of Thy Cross. One mission alone would not satisfy my longings. I would spread the Gospel to the ends of the earth, even to the most distant isles. I would be a Missionary, not for a few years only, but, were it possible, from the beginning of the world till the consummation of time. Above all, I thirst for the Martyr's crown. It was the desire of my earliest days, and the desire has deepened with the years passed in the Carmel's narrow cell. But this too is folly, since I do not sigh for one torment; I need them all to slake my thirst. Like Thee, O Adorable Spouse, I would be scourged, I would be crucified! I would be flayed like St. Bartholomew, plunged into boiling oil like St. John, or, like St. Ignatius of Antioch, ground by the teeth of wild beasts into a bread worthy of God. With St. Agnes and St. Cecilia I would offer my neck to the sword of the executioner, and like Joan of Arc I would murmur the name of Jesus at the stake. ...Open, O Jesus, the Book of Life, in which are written the deeds of Thy Saints: all the deeds told in that book I long to have accomplished for Thee.

There was a woman, for example, who was intelligent and had a very good heart. She had a daughter whom she adored and loved very much.

discuss him. I tried as the years went by to encourage her to give her father another chance but she remained firm on this. She was only twelve when he left but I let her watch as I shed frustrated, angry tears. She had gone from being Daddy’s girl to being ignored by her father. She saw the abuse but I believe, at the time, that she found a way to separate her and Joel’s relationship from that. He adored her and she him. Her animosity towards him came after he left, when she struggled with being dismissed along with the rest of us. It was only then that she began going over the incidents of abuse – perhaps as a way of saving herself from missing him, loving him, being rejected by him. I know how difficult that juxtaposition between the man who hurt her mother and her adoring father was for her.

Is she selfish, she wonders. She certainly has her life the way she wants it--a job she loves, a daughter she adores, a companion animal to share her home--and she knows that she would find it hard to compromise this existence for any man. Even in her fantasies of Nelson leaving Michelle (which do occur, despite herself), they never progress beyond the first ecstatic love-making. She never thinks about Nelson actually living in the tiny cottage, hogging the bathroom, leaving his giant policeman's boots on the stairs, wanting to watch the football instead of Prehistoric Autopsy. They would kill each other in a week.

It feels very wrong to be reading his words to my daughter, about my daughter, these private whispers of love. But I cannot stop myself. I pick up the next few letters, glancing over them, noting that they are all written in the same vein. Certain sentences jump out at me in the midst of his adoring prose. Stop worrying about who can see us. I promise you no one knows. It’s our special secret. Why did they feel the need to be anonymous in a small town? What difference would it have made if she had seen someone she knew from university? Why were they hiding? And why does he want her to destroy the letters? Exactly what kind of relationship were they having? Questions tumbling through my head, I pick up another one.

Narcissistic fathers poison the whole family with this competitive energy and instead of creating a safe environment for the children to grow, they turn family members against each other. The children’s mother and the scapegoated child are usually the ones to blame for all the failures, mistakes and wrongdoings, particularly for those he himself has committed. His wife is described as emotionally cold, distant, unloving, unsupportive and a sabotager of his and the family happiness or she takes the role of the flying monkey, catering to his needs, adoring him and supporting his toxic parenting, many times unconsciously.

This ability to stretch ourselves—within limits—applies to extroverts, too. One of my clients, Alison, is a business consultant, mother, and wife with the kind of extroverted personality—friendly, forthright, perpetually on the go—that makes people describe her as a “force of nature.” She has a happy marriage, two daughters she adores, and her own consulting

The Atlantic pulls at my heartstrings, as fondly as a bouquet of jasmine blossoms tied up in a bow. I fall before the rising waves, collecting the pearlescent seafoam. It's sacred, just for me, like a gift from a lover or my dearest friend. When I was little, I used to run into the Pacific for a moment of peace. It scared my mother silly watching her only daughter dive into the water's wrath. But I adored the sharp cold, the strength of the undertow, the reckless rush of the currents. The ocean could never hurt me. We were one. We still are, no matter how far from home I've come. My mother always said that, like the sea, I was chaos incarnate.

He put his hat back on his head and said good-bye to Charity, who continued to stare at him with wide eyes. She didn’t say anything in response to his gesture. I started to chastise my daughter for being rude, but before I could get a word out, she took a deep breath, turned toward me and said, “Mama, this man looks just like Prince Phillip . . . from Sleeping Beauty.” She fastened her gaze back on Noah, staring at him with an expression that bordered on adoration. “Are you Prince Phillip? My mama has been waiting for you such a long, long time.

for undying love and affection. The kind of love that bonds souls. The kind of love that’s so deep two become one. To be someone’s beloved. As a child I had my father, who adored and worshipped me—I was his perfect little daughter. He held me when I was sad, kissed my knee when I fell and got hurt, and read me bedtime stories. I was

A middle-aged man stood with one arm held tightly around what seemed to be his wife and the other around his twelve-year old daughter. From his dress, it was apparent he was a synagogue ruler. He was mid-story, speaking with a hushed tone. “While I was pleading with him, a messenger came and said, ‘Do not trouble the rabbi any further.’” He choked up. “‘Your daughter is dead.’” The ruler looked down at his daughter, obviously alive now, and kissed her head with adoration. He continued. “But Jesus told me, ‘Do not fear. Only believe.’ I led him with Peter, James and John to my house. There was already much weeping and wailing by the crowd. And then he said, ‘Why are you making such a commotion?’” This time the man choked up with amusement. “‘The child is not dead, but sleeping.

A duke’s daughter was far above his touch, and that was a shame. Fleur and Amanda would adore having Louisa as stepmama. After sharing this pedestrian little interlude with her, Joseph adored her. Adored her earnestness when she applied her imagination to what gifts Fleur and Amanda would enjoy most, adored the hint of vulnerability he’d seen when she revealed Moreland’s clumsy sobriquet for her.

We kissed once.” She spoke quietly and lowered her gaze. “I esteem you greatly, Joseph Carrington, though I have wondered if my efforts in that kiss were sufficiently unmemorable as to make you regret the occasion.” He was so busy trying to muster the discipline to let go of her hand and take himself off that her words didn’t register immediately in his befuddled mind. She esteemed him greatly? “Louisa, your efforts were not… unmemorable.” He saw her drop frosty politesse over the hint of vulnerability in her eyes, felt her spine stiffen fractionally—and knew he’d said the wrong thing. He could not abide those withdrawals, however subtle. “Louisa, since we kissed, I have thought of little else, and I esteem you greatly, as well. Very greatly.” While Joseph watched, a blush, beautiful and rosy, stole up Louisa Windham’s graceful neck. “I have had occasion to consider that kiss a time or two myself,” she said. He thought her voice might have been just a trifle husky. Hope, an entire Christmas of hope, blossomed in the center of his chest. “Perhaps you would like a small reminder now?” He would adore giving her a reminder. A reminder that took the rest of the afternoon and saw their clothes strewn about the chamber. Twelve days of reminders would work nicely, with a particular part of Joseph’s body promptly appointing itself Lord of Misrule. He would not push her, but he would get a cane, the better to support himself should random insecurity threaten his knees in future. Louisa lifted her gaze to his and seemed to visually inventory his features. After suffering her perusal for an eternity, Joseph let out a breath when she twined her arms slowly around his neck. He would not harry her. It would be a chaste kiss, a kiss to reassure— Louisa Windham did not need any reminders about how to kiss a man. She gently took possession of Joseph’s mouth, plundered his wits, and stole off with his best intentions.

Louisa turned to comply and felt his hand stroke down over her derriere and finish with a soft pat. There had been affection in that caress, also possessiveness and some male appreciation. “You like my bottom.” He paused in the act of toweling off his stomach, his smile sweet and masculine. “I adore your bottom. I am also more than fond of your derriere.” Bottom—a cavalryman’s term for grit, staying power, or heart. Louisa discarded her night robe and climbed on the bed, watching as her naked husband banked the coals, blew out the candles, and pushed the hearth screen right up next to the fire. “Husband? I like your bottom too.” He prowled over to the bed and climbed onto the mattress. “One suspected this was the case. I rejoice to hear it, though.” “I wouldn’t dissemble about something so important.” She expected him to come back with another dry retort, but instead he spooned his body around her, laced his fingers with hers, and kissed her shoulder. And that was answer enough. ***

had been adorably tipsy, having swiped his glass of thoroughly spiked punch, and he’d enjoyed the effects of the alcohol on her demeanor. Enjoyed her passionate, artless, determined kisses much more—and much longer—than he should have. She’d been a cheerful, even mischievous girl, dear and sweet and easy to tease. With her brother Bart’s death, something had changed and not for the better. When Deene had made some courtesy calls after selling his commission, he’d found Eve Windham to be punctiliously proper, stiff, and even chilly toward him, though Bart had more than intimated that the lady had her reasons. She wasn’t chilly now. She was utterly undone. It pleased him not at all to see it. He had, though, been pleased to find himself accosted in the coat closet out at Morelands over the holidays. The old Eve had been there in that kiss—wicked, sweet, playful, but also all grown-up in the best places. “Eve,

It was my editor at the time who has since retired, telling me that Walter and she would be coming to Charleston the following week to discuss my submission. Walter was Walter Zacharius, the founder and owner of Kensington Publishing. Walter was my boss, and my friend. I want to say right here and now that I absolutely adored that man. He saw me through some bad times, the death of my husband, and then the death of my youngest daughter a few years later. Just talking to him made things right somehow.

He had read somewhere that we are all—even those who would deny it—blindly adoring of our own lives exactly as they are. He knew this was true for him. If

Are you suffering a bilious stomach, Deene, or have you taken to glowering the matchmakers into submission?” Kesmore’s question caused Deene a start, for the man had given no warning of his presence. “And when did you take to lurking among the ferns, Kesmore?” “Perhaps I’m lurking among the shy, retiring bachelors. It isn’t like you to be demonstrably out of sorts, Deene, particularly not in company with the fair flowers of Polite Society.” No, it was not, which sorry state of affairs Deene laid directly at Lady Eve Windham’s dainty feet. “Cleaveridge is all but drooling on his partner’s bosom.” “What a lovely bosom it is, too. Moreland’s women are a pretty bunch.” This casual observation from a man who appeared to have no interest whatsoever in bosoms pretty or otherwise—save for that of his countess—made Deene want to stomp across the dance floor and pluck Eve from Cleaveridge’s arms. “She’s up to something.” “The ladies usually are. We adore them for it, and in polite company refer to it as a mysterious feminine quality.” Deene

David Sassoon For several decades, British designer David Sassoon has provided the best in evening wear for fashionable and famous customers from his high-profile store in London. His work has been featured in many international fashion shows and museums throughout the world, and his garments are in high demand at such notable stores as Sak’s Fifth Avenue, Harrods, and Neiman Marcus. The Princess of Wales would often make surprise visits to my shop, as I had made her going-away dress and many other outfits for her trousseau. In August 1982, Diana came to my shop with Lady Sarah Armstrong-Jones, the daughter of Princess Margaret, who had been a bridesmaid at Diana’s wedding. The Princess was wearing a blue-and-white-striped sailor-style two-piece outfit; Sarah wore a white shirt and a cotton skirt, as it was a very hot day. Diana said that she would like to choose a long evening dress for Sarah as a present. The dress was to be worn at a ball at Balmoral Castle. This was Sarah’s first long dress, and Diana wanted her to have her dream dress. There were lots of giggles and excitement as Diana helped Sarah try on some of the dresses, and the dressing room was full of laughter. Finally, Sarah chose a bright red strapless taffeta ball dress, which made her feel very grown up. We brought them tea while the dress was being fitted, and Sarah, who obviously adored Diana, listened to her advice about what accessories would complement the dress. Sarah was so excited about her beautiful and glamorous present when they left the shop. Diana had made a young girl’s dream come true.

Writing my memoirs brought back many wonderful memories. The universe does have ways of making us deal with issues that we had kept under wraps these many years. I’m sure when my books are published you’ll have the opportunity to read my memoirs, but for now I am enjoying the writing process. Connecting with you again is certainly an unexpected bonus through my current journey of self-discovery. Do send me pictures of your lovely family, especially Turtle and Rabbit. We have a beautiful “daughter,” Kali Durga, a fluffy Himalayan who is as adorable as Husni – remember my white Persian kitty? Their personalities are very similar. They are all about giving unconditional love and more love.

Lady Jenny, your turn.” She passed her sketch pad over to him, feeling a pang of sympathy for accused criminals as they stood in the dock. And yet, she’d asked for this. Gotten together all of her courage to ask for this one moment of artistic communion. “Well,” Mr. Harrison said, “isn’t he a handsome fellow? What do you think, ladies?” “You look like a papa,” Fleur observed. “Though our papa doesn’t sketch. He reads stories.” “And hates his ledgers,” Amanda added. “Is my hair that long in back?” “Yes,” Jenny said, because she’d drawn not only Elijah Harrison’s hands, but all of him, looking relaxed, elegant, and handsome, with Amanda crouched at his side, fascinated with what he created on the page. “I look…” He regarded the sketch in silence, while Jenny heard a coach-and-four rumbling toward her vulnerable heart. “I look… a bit tired, slightly rumpled, but quite at home. You are very quick, Lady Genevieve, and quite good.” Quite good. Like saying a baby was adorable, a young gentleman well-mannered. “The pose was simple,” Jenny said, “the lighting uncomplicated, and the subject…” “Yes?” He was one of those men built in perfect proportion. Antoine had spent an entire class wielding a tailor’s measure on Mr. Harrison’s body, comparing his proportions to the Apollo Belvedere, and scoffing at the “mistakes” inherent in Michelangelo’s David. Jenny wanted to snatch her drawing from his hand. “The subject is conducive to a pleasing image.” He passed the sketch pad back, but Jenny had the sense that in some way, some not entirely artistic way, she’d displeased him. The disappointment was survivable. Her art had been displeasing men since she’d first neglected her Bible verses to sketch her brothers. “You

Shall we help you look for prospects?” Jenny asked. “Kesmore wasn’t a likely prospect, but Louisa is thoroughly besotted with him.” Louisa shot Jenny an excuse-my-poor-daft-sister look. “Kesmore is a grouch, his children are complete hellions, he can hardly dance because of his perishing limp, and the man raises pigs.” “And you adore him,” Jenny reiterated sweetly. “What about that nice Mr. Perrington?” Gentle persistence was Jenny’s forte, one learned at the knee of Her Grace, whose gentle persistence had been known to overcome the objections of Wellington himself. “Mr. Perrington has lost half his teeth, and the other half are not long for his mouth,” Louisa observed as she moved on to the sandwiches. “Thank God he hides behind his hand when he laughs, but it gives him a slightly girlish air. I rather fancy Deene for Evie.” “Deene?” Eve and Jenny gaped in unison. “You fancy Lucas Denning as my husband?” Eve clarified. Louisa sat back, a sandwich poised in her hand. “He’d behave because our brothers would take it amiss were he a disappointing husband. Then too, he’d never do anything to make Their Graces think ill of him, and yet he wouldn’t bring any troublesome in-laws into the bargain. He needs somebody with a fat dowry, and he’s quite competent on the dance floor. He’d leave you alone for the most part. I think you could manage him very well.” Jenny’s lips pursed. “You want a husband you can manage?” Eve answered, feeling a rare sympathy for Louisa, “One hardly wants a husband one can’t manage, does one?” “Suppose not.” Jenny blinked at the tea tray. “You left us one cake each, Lou. Not well done of you.” Louisa turned guileless green eyes on her sister. “You left me only four sandwiches, Jen.” They

Papa suggested you had some options to put before me. What have you to offer besides this lunatic proposal that I should join myself to a man who is not much given to vice and not at all given to stealing kisses?” Now he was watching her mouth. “The only other option I see, Louisa Windham, is for you to marry me.” He braced himself for her to whip away, to laugh, to pucker up with the presumption of it. “Say something, Louisa. I mean you no insult, I hope you know that.” “You think I’d take insult because you raise swine and I am a duke’s daughter?” She still had not moved away, and a distracting olfactory tickle of clove and citrus wended its way into Joseph’s awareness. “There is that salient reality, but it’s also the case that I must have children, Louisa, there being the matter of that da—deuced title. I could not offer you the cordial union you might seek.” “By cordial, you mean unconsummated.” He managed another nod. Merely standing near her, her arm twined with his, their fingers linked—when had that happened?—was wreaking havoc with his composure. She stared past him into the fire, her brows knit. “I like children. They’re honest. They might lie about whether they stole the pie, but they don’t deceive themselves about enjoying every bite. Children love a good story. They don’t twitch their noses at a lively tale because it does not ‘improve the mind.’ Eve and Jenny adore children.” What was she saying? “Louisa, I am offering a marriage in truth, though I am not the better bargain.” This

April 3 MORNING “They took Jesus, and led Him away.” — John 19:16 HE had been all night in agony, He had spent the early morning at the hall of Caiaphas, He had been hurried from Caiaphas to Pilate, from Pilate to Herod, and from Herod back again to Pilate; He had, therefore, but little strength left, and yet neither refreshment nor rest were permitted Him. They were eager for His blood, and therefore led Him out to die, loaded with the cross. O dolorous procession! Well may Salem’s daughters weep. My soul, do thou weep also. What learn we here as we see our blessed Lord led forth? Do we not perceive that truth which was set forth in shadow by the scapegoat? Did not the high-priest bring the scapegoat, and put both his hands upon its head, confessing the sins of the people, that thus those sins might be laid upon the goat, and cease from the people? Then the goat was led away by a fit man into the wilderness, and it carried away the sins of the people, so that if they were sought for they could not be found. Now we see Jesus brought before the priests and rulers, who pronounce Him guilty; God Himself imputes our sins to Him, “the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all;” “He was made sin for us;” and, as the substitute for our guilt, bearing our sin upon His shoulders, represented by the cross; we see the great Scapegoat led away by the appointed officers of justice. Beloved, can you feel assured that He carried your sin? As you look at the cross upon His shoulders, does it represent your sin? There is one way by which you can tell whether He carried your sin or not. Have you laid your hand upon His head, confessed your sin, and trusted in Him? Then your sin lies not on you; it has all been transferred by blessed imputation to Christ, and He bears it on His shoulder as a load heavier than the cross. Let not the picture vanish till you have rejoiced in your own deliverance, and adored the loving Redeemer upon whom your iniquities were laid.

Why, Tess,' Billy said, with exaggerated surprise, 'aren't you just crazy about being a cheerleader?' 'Oh, I love it,' she responded derisively. 'All this rah-rah stuff is for infants. I'm sick of it.' I could hardly believe my ears. How could anyone get sick of being part of the most prestigious group of females in the school? I mean, in my own thoughts, I could make fun of cheerleading as a mindless activity, but I couldn't sneer at the popularity and adoration the cheerleaders received as their due. I couldn't be that dishonest with myself.

The lunch menu consisted of a seafood appetizer, creamy chicken in a pastry shell, and a green salad--none of which was really kids’ food. Patrick and Caroline toyed silently with their seafood and managed a few obligatory bites. I noticed Diana’s eyes twinkling with amusement as she watched them. I had to admit “Patrick and Caroline aren’t especially fond of shellfish.” When the chicken was served, Caroline didn’t know how to serve herself and cast an imploring look at me that said, “Oh, help! What do I do, Mom?” Before I could react, Diana, so attuned to children, jumped up and came over to serve Caroline and cut up her chicken. I was speechless at her rapid, sympathetic response. Caroline thanked her, then gazed at her in adoration for the rest of the meal. She was in heaven! Dessert was tricky and delicious--ice cream in a slippery chocolate shell. This time two people served all of us, so my children would not have to struggle for themselves. During lunch, Diana made a point of asking Patrick and Caroline about their travels, their schools, and their hobbies. Patrick’s responses were very polite, but tended to be rather subdued and brief. I wanted him to sound a bit more animated. I resisted the urge to give him a sharp kick under the table. Caroline was more talkative. Diana seemed to enjoy my lively, spunky daughter. My children behaved themselves beautifully amidst the unaccustomed formality and luxury. My years of daily training paid off. They answered questions politely, sat up straight in their chairs, and even chewed with their mouths closed. I thought of my mother-in-law’s claim, “You can take those children anywhere.” Their lunch with the Princess of Wales certainly proved her point. I was very proud of them.

Well then, Juliet, since you can't find anything funny about our predicament, let's see what Charlotte can do," he announced with a flippant, offhand charm. And then, before she could protest, he plucked the baby from her arms, laid her on the bed, and tickled her until she batted at his hands and began shrieking with delight. "See? Charlotte thinks it's funny, don't you, Charlie-girl?" The baby, who obviously adored him, gurgled and squealed, and Juliet found herself staring at the tender picture the two of them made; he, so tall and strong and masculine, her daughter, so tiny and helpless. She swallowed, hard. There was something deep and moving in this powerful image of Lord Gareth de Montforte as a father — a role that seemed to come as easily to him as flight to a bird. Her heart beat faster as she finally acknowledged what she'd been afraid to admit all along. She desired him. Desired him so badly it scared her. He glanced over at her, grinning. She shook her head and folded her arms, feigning annoyance but unable to prevent the growing amusement from sparking her eyes. Then he bent over Charlotte, his nose nearly touching hers, a few locks of hair tumbling over his brow and brushing the baby's forehead. He put his fingers into the corners of his mouth and pulled his cheeks wide, all the while making an absurd gurgling noise and glancing playfully at Juliet out of the corner of his eye to ensure that she was watching, too. He looked completely ridiculous. Worse, he knew he looked completely ridiculous and reveled in it. Unbidden, a burst of laughter escaped Juliet, mingling with Charlotte's happy shrieks. Letting go of his cheeks, Gareth laughed right along with them, a big, happy sound that brightened the room as the candles never could have done. It was warm laughter, family laughter, the kind of laughter that Juliet had never expected to share in ever again. Something

Speaking of those children...."  He tried to turn his head within the curve of Juliet's arm so that he could look at Charlotte. "It appears that one of them ... is yours." "Yes, my daughter. She's just over six months." "Will you lift her up so I may see her? I adore children." Juliet hesitated, thinking that sleeping babes were best left alone. But it was not in her to deny the wishes of a man who might very well be dying. Carefully, she picked up the infant and held her so that Gareth could see her. Charlotte whimpered and opened her eyes. Immediately, the lines of pain about Gareth's mouth relaxed. Smiling weakly, he reached up and ran his fingers over one of the tiny fists, unaware that he was touching his own niece. A lump rose in Juliet's throat. It was not hard at all to imagine that he was Charles, reaching up to touch his daughter. Not hard at all. "You're just ... as pretty as your mama," he murmured. "A few more years ... and all the young bucks shall be after you ... like hounds to the fox."  To Juliet he said, "What is her name?" "Charlotte."  The baby was wide awake now and tugging at the lace of his sleeve. "Charlotte. Such a pretty name ... and where is your papa, little Charlie-girl? Should he ... not be here to ... protect you and your mama?" Juliet stiffened. His innocent words had slammed a fresh bolt of pain through her. Tight-lipped, she pried the lace from Charlotte's fist and cradled her close. Deprived of her amusement, the baby screwed up her face and began to wail at the top of her lungs while Juliet stared out the window, her mouth set and her hand clenched in a desperate bid to control her emotions. Gareth managed to make himself heard over Charlotte's angry screams. "I am sorry. I think I have offended you, somehow...." "No." "Then what is it?" "Her papa's dead." "Oh. I, ah ... I see."  He looked distressed, and remorse stole the brightness that Charlotte had brought to his eyes. "I am sorry, madam. I am forever saying the wrong thing, I fear." Charlotte was now crying harder, beating her fists and kicking her feet in protest. The blanket fell away. Juliet attempted to put it back. Charlotte screamed louder, her angry squalls filling the coach until Juliet felt like crying herself. She made a noise of helpless despair. "Here ... set her on your lap, beside my head," Lord Gareth said at last. "She can play with my cravat." "No, you're hurt." He smiled. "And your daughter is crying. Oblige me, and she will stop."  He stretched a hand toward the baby, offering his fingers, but she batted him away and continued to wail. "I'm told I have a way ... with children." With a sigh, Juliet did as he asked. Immediately, Charlotte quieted and fell to playing with his cravat.

For the first time in his life — excepting his rescue of the stagecoach passengers and that of Juliet and Charlotte by way of a wedding ring — he actually felt good about himself. Proud of himself. He was not relying on someone else to support him. He was not searching for some new way to chase away the endless boredom of his life or making a spectacle of himself for the amusement of others or getting himself into trouble with the knowledge that Lucien would bail him out. With his own brain and hands, he was supporting his wife and his daughter — the two people he loved most in the world. The two people he loved most in the world. Ah, there was no question about that. He'd adored his little Charlie-girl from the moment he first met her and saw his brother's blue eyes peering up at him from beneath those thick de Montforte lashes. And as for Juliet, beautiful, dark-haired Juliet with the creamy-smooth skin and loving hands and long, luscious legs ... He grinned like a fool. He was the luckiest man in England, and, by God, he wasn't going to jeopardize things by telling her what Snelling had really hired him to do! With

He’d set her on her side facing him, and her mouth now hung open, a small string of drool slipping from it. For some reason the sight made warmth rattle through his chest and brought a smile to his lips. She was just so damned adorable to him. The thought made him smile wryly. He’d been all set to order his men to the horses and ride out of here rather than marry the lass who was the Withram’s second daughter, and then he’d spotted her and something about her had made him change his mind immediately. But he really couldn’t say what that something was. She was bonnie enough, Ross supposed, but he’d seen bonnier. And she hadn’t said more than a few words to him all night, so it wasn’t that she had a shiny wit and charm, at least not that he yet knew of. Perhaps it had been the fear and anxiety in her eyes. Her expression had been calm and even pleasant, but her eyes had been awash with uncertainty and terror. He’d immediately wanted to reassure, soothe and protect her. Following