Ashamed And Sorry Quotes

Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before--more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.

Why are you drinking? demanded the little prince. "So that I may forget," replied the tippler. "Forget what?" inquired the little prince, who was already sorry for him. "Forget that I am ashamed," the tippler confessed, hanging his head. "Ashamed of what?" insisted the little prince, who wanted to help him. "Ashamed of drinking!

You’re sorry? I damn near drank myself to death, I could barely get out of bed, I shattered my phone into a million pieces on New Year’s Eve to keep from calling you … and you’re sorry?” I bit my lip and nodded, ashamed. I had no idea what he’d been through, and hearing his say the words made sharp pain twist inside my chest. “I’m so … so sorry.” “You’re forgiven,” he said with a grin. “Don’t ever do it again.” “I won’t. I promise.” He flashed his dimple and shook his head. “I fucking love you.

Whoa," Connor Stoll said. "Back up. Zoom in right there." "What?" Annabeth said nervously. "You see invaders?" "No, right there—Dylan's Candy Bar." Connor grinned at his brother. "Dude, it's open. And everyone is asleep. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" "Connor!" Katie Gardner scolded. She sounded like her mother, Demeter. "This is serious. You are not going to loot a candy store in the middle of a war!" "Sorry," Connor muttered, but he didn't sound very ashamed.

For so many years I thought my life was difficult; I thought I understood what it meant to suffer. But this. This is something I can’t even begin to comprehend. I never stopped to consider that someone else might have it worse than I do. It makes me feel ashamed for ever having felt sorry for myself.

Why are you drinking? - the little prince asked. - In order to forget - replied the drunkard. - To forget what? - inquired the little prince, who was already feeling sorry for him. - To forget that I am ashamed - the drunkard confessed, hanging his head. - Ashamed of what? - asked the little prince who wanted to help him. - Ashamed of drinking! - concluded the drunkard, withdrawing into total silence. And the little prince went away, puzzled. 'Grown-ups really are very, very odd', he said to himself as he continued his journey.

Looking for Your Face From the beginning of my life I have been looking for your face but today I have seen it Today I have seen the charm, the beauty, the unfathomable grace of the face that I was looking for Today I have found you and those who laughed and scorned me yesterday are sorry that they were not looking as I did I am bewildered by the magnificence of your beauty and wish to see you with a hundred eyes My heart has burned with passion and has searched forever for this wondrous beauty that I now behold I am ashamed to call this love human and afraid of God to call it divine Your fragrant breath like the morning breeze has come to the stillness of the garden You have breathed new life into me I have become your sunshine and also your shadow My soul is screaming in ecstasy Every fiber of my being is in love with you Your effulgence has lit a fire in my heart and you have made radiant for me the earth and sky My arrow of love has arrived at the target I am in the house of mercy and my heart is a place of prayer

Kyo Sohma: One of these days I'll make you say you're sorry Yuki Sohma: looking bored I'm sorry. Kyo Sohma: Dammit That's not what I meant Don't you have any shame Yuki Sohma: still looking annoyed Yes I'm ashamed to be seen with you shouting in public. Kyo Sohma: Oh that's it We're taking this outside Yuki Sohma: still looking annoyed We ARE outside you stupid cat.

She goes silent. Ashamed of herself as mothers are when they realize they have passed that point in life when they want more from their daughters than their daughters want from them.

I am, and always have been - first, last, and always - a child of America. You raised me. I grew up in the pastures and hills of Texas, but I had been to thirty-four states before I learned how to drive. When I caught the stomach flu in the fifth grade, my mother sent a note to school written on the back of a holiday memo from Vice President Biden. Sorry, sir—we were in a rush, and it was the only paper she had on hand. I spoke to you for the first time when I was eighteen, on the stage of the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, when I introduced my mother as the nominee for president. You cheered for me. I was young and full of hope, and you let me embody the American dream: that a boy who grew up speaking two languages, whose family was blended and beautiful and enduring, could make a home for himself in the White House. You pinned the flag to my lapel and said, “We’re rooting for you.” As I stand before you today, my hope is that I have not let you down. Years ago, I met a prince. And though I didn’t realize it at the time, his country had raised him too. The truth is, Henry and I have been together since the beginning of this year. The truth is, as many of you have read, we have both struggled every day with what this means for our families, our countries, and our futures. The truth is, we have both had to make compromises that cost us sleep at night in order to afford us enough time to share our relationship with the world on our own terms. We were not afforded that liberty. But the truth is, also, simply this: love is indomitable. America has always believed this. And so, I am not ashamed to stand here today where presidents have stood and say that I love him, the same as Jack loved Jackie, the same as Lyndon loved Lady Bird. Every person who bears a legacy makes the choice of a partner with whom they will share it, whom the American people will “hold beside them in hearts and memories and history books. America: He is my choice. Like countless other Americans, I was afraid to say this out loud because of what the consequences might be. To you, specifically, I say: I see you. I am one of you. As long as I have a place in this White House, so will you. I am the First Son of the United States, and I’m bisexual. History will remember us. If I can ask only one thing of the American people, it’s this: Please, do not let my actions influence your decision in November. The decision you will make this year is so much bigger than anything I could ever say or do, and it will determine the fate of this country for years to come. My mother, your president, is the warrior and the champion that each and every American deserves for four more years of growth, progress, and prosperity. Please, don’t let my actions send us backward. I ask the media not to focus on me or on Henry, but on the campaign, on policy, on the lives and livelihoods of millions of Americans at stake in this election. And finally, I hope America will remember that I am still the son you raised. My blood still runs from Lometa, Texas, and San Diego, California, and Mexico City. I still remember the sound of your voices from that stage in Philadelphia. I wake up every morning thinking of your hometowns, of the families I’ve met at rallies in Idaho and Oregon and South Carolina. I have never hoped to be anything other than what I was to you then, and what I am to you now—the First Son, yours in actions and words. And I hope when Inauguration Day comes again in January, I will continue to be.

Just as I am drifting off to sleep, he speak again, so softly I almost cannot be certain it is not a dream. "I am sorry. You make me ashamed of what we are, of what little we can offer you, and I lashed out at you when what I really wanted was to punish my own dark thoughts.

Are you fucking kidding me? I was just trying to make it easier on you! Do you know how miserable I’ve been?” I frowned. “You looked just fine after break.” “That was for you! I was afraid I’d lose you if I didn’t pretend to be okay with being friends. I could have been with you this whole time? What the fuck, Pigeon?” “I….” I couldn’t argue; he was right. I had made us both suffer, and I had no excuse. “I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry? I damn near drank myself to death, I could barely get out of bed, I shattered my phone into a million pieces on New Year’s Eve to keep from calling you…and you’re sorry?” I bit my lip and nodded, ashamed. I had no idea what he’d been through, and hearing him say the words made a sharp pain twist inside my chest. “I’m so…so sorry.” “You’re forgiven,” he said with a grin. “Don’t ever do it again.” “I won’t. I promise.” He flashed his dimple and shook his head. “I fucking love you.

Humans are strange things. They have sex with each other; but are too ashamed to say sorry to one another, they see what they have when they've lost what they have; but not while they have it, they are the most proud on the outside during the times they are the most insecure on the inside, and they would rather die manipulating others than be brave enough to be honest. They can't even look in the mirror properly. All they see are their shells in the mirror; nothing else.

I don't break down," she announced. "Got it?" He got it. He was already pulling back, looking ashamed of himself, but somehow he was still holding her wrist. "I never break down. I'm a lawyer.

Somehow: Molly. He heard her in the entryway. Mol, Molly, oh boy. When they were first married they used to fight. Say the most insane things. Afterward, sometimes there would be tears. Tears in bed? And then they would - Molly pressing her hot wet face against his hot wet face. They were sorry, they were saying with their bodies, they were accepting each other back, and that feeling, that feeling of being accepted back again and again, of someone's affection for you expanding to encompass whatever new flawed thing had just manifested in you, that was the deepest, dearest thing he'd ever - She came in flustered and apologetic, a touch of anger in her face. He'd embarrassed her. He saw that. He'd embarrassed her by doing something that showed she hadn't sufficiently noticed him needing her. She'd been too busy nursing him to notice how scared he was. She was angry at him for pulling this stunt and ashamed of herself for feeling angry at him in his hour of need, and was trying to put the shame and anger behind her now so she could do what might be needed. All of this was in her face. He knew her so well. Also concern. Overriding everything else in that lovely face was concern. She came to him now, stumbling a bit on a swell in the floor of this stranger's house.

Because you’ve made sadness a disease….Happiness without sadness is emptiness, nothingness. The world once taught us to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ when we still cried, as if what we were doing was something to be ashamed of. What you’ve done is worse.” “I want you to be happy. The world wants you to be happy.” “…Then why does it have to get so goddamn angry at me, when I’m not?

Rodrick’s punishment was that he had to answer a bunch of questions Mom wrote out for him. Did owning this magazine make you a better person? No. Did it make you more popular at school? No. How do you feel about having owned this type of magazine now? I feel ashamed. Do you have anything you want to say to women for having owned this offensive magazine? I’m sorry women.

What?” Annabeth said nervously. “You see invaders?” “No, right there—Dylan’s Candy Bar.” Connor grinned at his brother. “Dude, it’s open. And everyone is asleep. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” “Connor!” Katie Gardner scolded. She sounded like her mother, Demeter. “This is serious. You are not going to loot a candy store in the middle of a war!” “Sorry,” Connor muttered, but he didn’t sound very ashamed.

It's About love Someone when u love someone so much. And when we have a argument. I felt like leaving him for good. And you decided not to leave him because you love him so much. And way later we say sorry to each other and forget the argument we just had. And we could be happy, say I love you and I'm sorry that we have a argument we just had! And it's hard to let him go! And you wish that you could have him back

I closed what little distance was left between us, one hand sliding through his soft hair, the other gathering the back of his shirt into my fist. When my lips finally pressed against his, I felt something coil deep inside of me. There was nothing outside of him, not even the grating of cicadas, not even the gray-bodied trees. My heart thundered in my chest. More, more, more—a steady beat. His body relaxed under my hands, shuddering at my touch. Breathing him in wasn’t enough, I wanted to inhale him. The leather, the smoke, the sweetness. I felt his fingers counting up my bare ribs. Liam shifted his legs around mine to draw me closer. I was off-balance on my toes; the world swaying dangerously under me as his lips traveled to my cheek, to my jaw, to where my pulse throbbed in my neck. He seemed so sure of himself, like he had already plotted out this course. I didn’t feel it happen, the slip. Even if I had, I was so wrapped up in him that I couldn’t imagine pulling back or letting go of his warm skin or that moment. His touch was feather-light, stroking my skin with a kind of reverence, but the instant his lips found mine again, a single thought was enough to rocket me out of the honey-sweet haze. The memory of Clancy’s face as he had leaned in to do exactly what Liam was doing now suddenly flooded my mind, twisting its way through me until I couldn’t ignore it. Until I was seeing it play out glossy and burning like it was someone else’s memory and not mine. And then I realized—I wasn’t the only one seeing it. Liam was seeing it, too. How, how, how? That wasn’t possible, was it? Memories flowed to me, not from me. But I felt him grow still, then pull back. And I knew, I knew by the look on his face, that he had seen it. Air filled my chest. “Oh my God, I’m sorry, I didn’t want—he—” Liam caught one of my wrists and pulled me back to him, his hands cupping my cheeks. I wondered which one of us was breathing harder as he brushed my hair from my face. I tried to squirm away, ashamed of what he’d seen, and afraid of what he’d think of me. When Liam spoke, it was in a measured, would-be-calm voice. “What did he do?” “Nothing—” “Don’t lie,” he begged. “Please don’t lie to me. I felt it…my whole body. God, it was like being turned to stone. You were scared—I felt it, you were scared!” His fingers came up and wove through my hair, bringing my face close to his again. “He…” I started. “He asked to see a memory, and I let him, but when I tried to move away…I couldn’t get out, I couldn’t move, and then I blacked out. I don’t know what he did, but it hurt—it hurt so much.” Liam pulled back and pressed his lips to my forehead. I felt the muscles in his arms strain, shake. “Go to the cabin.” He didn’t let me protest. “Start packing.” “Lee—” “I’m going to find Chubs,” he said. “And the three of us are getting the hell out of here. Tonight.” “We can’t,” I said. “You know we can’t.” But he was already crashing back through the dark path. “Lee!

I would mind it less," said Mrs. Westfall, "if you looked a bit sorry or ashamed." The Virginian shook his head at her penitently. "I'm tryin' to," he said

Dear Madam Vorsoisson, I am sorry. This is the eleventh draft of this letter. They’ve all started with those three words, even the horrible version in rhyme, so I guess they stay. You once asked me never to lie to you. All right, so. I’ll tell you the truth now even if it isn’t the best or cleverest thing, and not abject enough either. I tried to be the thief of you, to ambush and take prisoner what I thought I could never earn or be given. You were not a ship to be hijacked, but I couldn’t think of any other plan but subterfuge and surprise. Though not as much of a surprise as what happened at dinner. The revolution started prematurely because the idiot conspirator blew up his secret ammo dump and lit the sky with his intentions. Sometimes these accidents end in new nations, but more often they end badly, in hangings and beheadings. And people running into the night. I can’t be sorry that I asked you to marry me, because that was the one true part in all the smoke and rubble, but I’m sick as hell that I asked you so badly. Even though I’d kept my counsel from you, I should have at least had the courtesy to keep it from others as well, till you’d had the year of grace and rest you’d asked for. But I became terrified that you’d choose another first. So I used the garden as a ploy to get near you. I deliberately and consciously shaped your heart’s desire into a trap. For this I am more than sorry, I am ashamed. You’d earned every chance to grow. I’d like to pretend I didn’t see it would be a conflict of interest for me to be the one to give you some of those chances, but that would be another lie. But it made me crazy to watch you constrained to tiny steps, when you could be outrunning time. There is only a brief moment of apogee to do that, in most lives. I love you. But I lust after and covet so much more than your body. I wanted to possess the power of your eyes, the way they see form and beauty that isn’t even there yet and draw it up out of nothing into the solid world. I wanted to own the honor of your heart, unbowed in the vilest horrors of Komarr. I wanted your courage and your will, your caution and your serenity. I wanted, I suppose, your soul, and that was too much to want. I wanted to give you a victory. But by their essential nature triumphs can’t be given. They must be taken, and the worse the odds and the fiercer the resistance, the greater the honor. Victories can’t be gifts. But gifts can be victories, can’t they. It’s what you said. The garden could have been your gift, a dowry of talent, skill, and vision. I know it’s too late now, but I just wanted to say, it would have been a victory most worthy of our House. Yours to command, Miles Vorkosigan

Sitting across from me is my father, and as I look into his worn face it hits me, a truth so powerful I don’t know why I’ve never understood it before. The truth is this: that I am not a good daughter. I am a traitor, a wolf among sheep; there is something different about me and that difference is not good. I want to bellow, to weep into my father’s knees and promise never to do it again. But wolf that I am, I am still above lying, and anyway he would sniff the lie. We both know that if I ever again find Shawn on the highway, soaked in crimson, I will do exactly what I have just done. I am not sorry, merely ashamed.

Because I kissed you? Seriously? You only like me because I’m a good kisser? That’s it. We’re not doing this. I’m not letting you risk your life just because you can’t think with your upstairs brain.” “No, you twit.” Ryan laughed. “Because you kissed me that day. I expected the ice queen and got a funny, go-with-the-flow girl that didn’t care what anyone thought about her. A girl willing to stir up gossip just so that I could win a date with someone else. “You didn’t have to help me. In fact, you probably should have been insulted, but you weren’t. You kissed me, you smiled, and then you wished me good luck. No one’s ever surprised me like that. I couldn’t figure out why you did it, and I just had to get to know you after that.” I had no idea that stupid kiss had that kind of effect on him. Charged him up like a battery, sure, but do all that? All this time I really thought it was just the superkissing that kept him coming back. I looked down at my lunch, feeling a little ashamed of my lack of faith in him, but Ryan couldn’t stop there. Oh, no, not Ryan Miller. “After that day, every time I was with you I got brief glimpses of the real Jamie, the one who is dying to break out, and she was this fun, relaxed, smart, funny, caring girl. Finding out the truth about you only made you that much more incredible. You’re so strong. You’ve gone through so much, you’re going through so much, but you never stop trying. You’re amazing.” I was surprised when I felt Ryan’s hand lift my chin up. I didn’t want to look at him, I knew what would happen to my heart if I did, but I couldn’t stop myself. I craved him too much. When we made eye contact, his face lit up and he whispered, “I love you, Jamie Baker.” It came out of nowhere, and it stole the breath from me, leaving me speechless. Ryan stared at me, just waiting for some kind of reaction, and then I was the one who broke the no-kissing rule. It wasn’t my fault. He totally cheated! Like anyone could resist Ryan Miller when he’s touching your face and saying he loves you? I threw myself at him so fast that I startled him for a change, and he was the one who had to pull me off him when his hair started to stick up. “Sorry,” I breathed as he pulled away. “Don’t be sorry,” he teased. “Just stop.” “Sorry,” I said again when I noticed that his leg was now bouncing under the table. “Yeah. Looks like I don’t get to sleep through economics today.” “On the bright side, Coach could make you run laps all practice long and you’d be fine.

Why are you drinking? - the little prince asked. - In order to forget - replied the drunkard. - To forget what? - enquired the little prince, who was already feeling sorry for him. - To forget that I am ashamed - the drunkard confessed, hanging his head. - Ashamed of what? - asked the little prince who wanted to help him. - Ashamed of drinking!

Oh, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Slaying a villain in the service of your king is the stuff of legends and what heroes are made of." [Fanen told Myron] "It didn't feel very heroic. It made me sick. I don't even know why I... no, that's a lie. I really have to stop doing that." [Myron said] "Doing what?" "Lying. (...) It's evidence of self loathing. You see, when you are so ashamed of your actions, thoughts, or intentions, you lie to hide it rather than accept yourself for who you really are. The idea of how others see you becomes more important than the reality of you. "It's like when a man would rather die than be thought of a coward. His life is not as important to him as his reputation. In the end, who is the braver? The man who dies rather than be thought of as a coward or the man who lives willing to face who he really is?" [Myron finished] "I'm sorry, you lost me there" Fanen said with a quizzical look.

When you lose weight, mol, you will be a suitable match for him.” Sweetie knew in her heart that she was good enough for Ashish just as she was. But why couldn’t her own mother see that? “I’m … I’m sorry you’re so ashamed of me,” she said quietly. “But I’m not ashamed of myself.” Her eyes burned with tears.

Father Brendan Flynn: "A woman was gossiping with her friend about a man whom they hardly knew - I know none of you have ever done this. That night, she had a dream: a great hand appeared over her and pointed down on her. She was immediately seized with an overwhelming sense of guilt. The next day she went to confession. She got the old parish priest, Father O' Rourke, and she told him the whole thing. 'Is gossiping a sin?' she asked the old man. 'Was that God All Mighty's hand pointing down at me? Should I ask for your absolution? Father, have I done something wrong?' 'Yes,' Father O' Rourke answered her. 'Yes, you ignorant, badly-brought-up female. You have blamed false witness on your neighbor. You played fast and loose with his reputation, and you should be heartily ashamed.' So, the woman said she was sorry, and asked for forgiveness. 'Not so fast,' says O' Rourke. 'I want you to go home, take a pillow upon your roof, cut it open with a knife, and return here to me.' So, the woman went home: took a pillow off her bed, a knife from the drawer, went up the fire escape to her roof, and stabbed the pillow. Then she went back to the old parish priest as instructed. 'Did you gut the pillow with a knife?' he says. 'Yes, Father.' 'And what were the results?' 'Feathers,' she said. 'Feathers?' he repeated. 'Feathers; everywhere, Father.' 'Now I want you to go back and gather up every last feather that flew out onto the wind,' 'Well,' she said, 'it can't be done. I don't know where they went. The wind took them all over.' 'And that,' said Father O' Rourke, 'is gossip!

Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.

You’re sorry? I damn near drank myself to death, I could barely get out of bed, I shattered my phone into a million pieces on New Year’s Eve to keep from calling you … and you’re sorry?” I bit my lip and nodded, ashamed. I had no idea what he’d been through, and hearing his say the words made sharp pain twist inside my chest. “I’m so … so sorry.” “You’re forgiven,” he said with a grin. “Don’t ever do it again.” “I won’t. I promise.” He flashed his dimple and shook his head. “I fucking love you.” º

The whole time we were together, why didn't you tell me any of this? I don't know. I suppose I didn't want you to think I was damaged or something. I was probably afraid you didn't want me anymore. Finally he puts his face in his hands. His fingers feel cold and clammy on his eyelids and there are tears in his eyes. The harder he presses with his fingers, the faster the tears seep out, wet, onto his skin. Jesus, he says. His voice sounds thick and he clears his throat. Come here, he says. And she comes to him. He feels terribly ashamed and confused. They lie face-to-face and he puts his arms around her body. In her ear he says: I'm sorry, okay? She holds onto him tightly, her arms winding around him, and he kisses her forehead. But he always thought she was damaged, he thought it anyway.

You’re different than you used to be. A few months ago you wouldn’t have followed me onto this porch.” The compliment, if it was that, brought tears to her eyes. “I—I’m sorry for treating you so badly. I’m ashamed now of how I snubbed you—acted afraid of you—” “It’s common enough.” The admission startled her—made her feel grieved and defensive and tender toward him all at once. She longed to lay a reassuring hand on his sleeve but checked herself. There was no self-pity in his manner, only truth telling, and she sensed he didn’t want her sympathy, just her friendship. And her forgiveness. “A half blood belongs to no one, red or white,” he said. “You belong to God,” she said softly.

Thad asked, "Why does she keep calling you Kid, Mr.Morgan? Something about that sounds mite familiar." "Son of a gun!" Bill suddenly exclaimed. "He's Kid Morgan, the gunfighter! I've read about him! Lace glanced at The Kid and smiled. "Looks like your secret's out." "It was never that much of a secret." The Kid shrugged. "Well, I'm glad I don't have to keep it anymore," Nick said. The Gustaffson brothers looked at him. Bill said, "You knew about this?" "Yeah," Nick replied, looking a little ashamed. "I'm sorry, fellas. Mr.Morgan asked me to keep quiet about it, and I promised him I would.

People might feel sorry for a man who's fallen on hard times, but when an entire nation is poor, the rest of the world assumes that all its people must be brainless, lazy, dirty, clumsy fools. Instead of pity, the people provoke laughter. It's all a joke: their culture, their customs, their practices. In time the rest of the world may, some of them, begin to feel ashamed for having thought this way, and when they look around and see immigrants from that poor country mopping their floors and doing all the other lowest paying jobs, naturally they worry about what might happen if these workers one day rose up against them. So, to keep things sweet, they start taking an interest in the immigrants' culture and sometimes even pretend they think of them as equals.

The salient point about remorse, however, is that it matters little whether it is genuine or not. Clients who get very sorry after acts of abuse change at about the same rate as the ones who don't. The most regretful are sometimes the most self-centered, lamenting above all the injury they've done to their own self-image. They feel ashamed of having behaved like cruel dictators and want to revert quickly to the role of benign dictators, as if that somehow makes them much better people.

Well,the hell with you." She natched up her purse. "The hell with both of you." "We love you, Margo." That stopped her.She whirled back to glare at Kate. "That's a lousy thing to say.Bitch." When Kate grinned,she tried to grin back.Instead she dropped her purse back behind the counter and burst into tears. "Oh,shit." Shocked,Kate leaped forward to gather her close. "Oh,hell.Oh, shit.Lock the door,Laura.I'm sorry, Margo.I'm sorry.Bad plan.I thought you'd just get mad and go tearing off to fix his butt.What did the bastard do to you,honey?I'll fix his butt for you." "He dumped me." Thoroughly ashamed, she sobbed wretchedly on Kate's shoulder. "He hates me.I wish he were dead.I wish I had slept with Claudio." "Wait.Whoa." Firmly, Kate drew he back,while Laura brought over a cup of tea. "Who's Claudio and when didn't you sleep with him?" "He's a friend,just a friend.And I never slept with him." The tears were so hot it felt as though her eyes were on fire. "Especially not when Josh found us in the bedroom." "Uh-oh." Kate rolled her eyes at Laura. "Is it a French farce or a Greek tragedy?You be the judge." "Shut up,Kate.Come on Margo.Let's sit down.This time you tell us everything.

I want to say that it disturbs me deeply that I was part of such a criminal organization. I am ashamed that I saw injustice was being done and I did nothing to stop it. I apologize for my actions. I am very, very sorry.

I spend the first week after screwing everything up with Kit too ashamed to do anything except write her a stupid text. I keep it short, limit it to the words I know can’t be the wrong ones: I’m sorry. I don’t trust myself not to make a bigger mess of things by saying more. Whenever I pick up the phone to text again, I freeze up with anxiety. I don’t feel like I deserve the chance to explain. I don’t even deserve to share the same air molecules as Kit.

Make them see your strength like you just made me see.” “I…I can’t,” he says. “You’re whole life, they’ve forced you aside, trampled over you because they’ve made you believe you have to earn their love by hiding the truth. Don’t give them that power. They don’t deserve it.” I step closer. “You are one of the fiercest people I know, and I hate watching them treat you like you need to be ashamed of the things that have made you that way.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Your battles are as valid as theirs, mine, as anyone’s. I’m sorry I let myself forget that.

Ashamed of what she had thought, Rycca lowered her eyes. “I am sorry.” “For what? Assuming I took the stone by force? But that’s what Vikings do, isn’t it?” He sounded exasperated and she could not blame him. But neither was she prepared when he suddenly asked, “Why did you not want us to marry? Because I am Viking?” She had wondered if he would ask, then decided her reasons would likely mean nothing to him. But he was a man of surprises, this hero of her strange world. And very good at biding his time. “It is true, I did not wish to wed a Viking.” “Because of what you have heard about us?

Lottie, I’m sorry.” His voice is tight. “I know what I did last night was inexcusable. I should never have treated you the way I did, and I’m ashamed.” He swallows hard. “I’m just really fucking scared I fucked over my brothers. I took my fears out on you rather than leaning on you.” His thumb brushes over my cheek. “And I’m sorry.” He picks up a bag from his side and sets it closer to me. “I wasn’t sure if you had any clothes or overnight things here, but I thought I’d bring you some of your things.” That’s annoyingly thoughtful. “I have to get to the office to do some damage control, but I wanted to see you first. Can we have dinner tonight?

Why are you drinking?" demanded the little prince. "So that I may forget," repiled the tipper. "Forget what?" inquired the little prince, who already was sorry for him. "Forget that I am ashamed," the tipper confessed, hanging his head. "Ashamed of what?" insisted the little prince, who wanted to help him. "Ashamed of drinking!

The worst part is that I want to turn this into a parable. I want to echo a rallying cry of inspiration that sings, Women, we are not alone; Women, these men do not defeat us; Women, these men do not define us; Women, I feel what you feel; Women, we, together, are strong, and for all the loud voices that said no or that didn’t have the freedom to but who still said 'please stop' or 'not right now' or 'I don’t know' or 'I don’t like that' which are all the same goddamn thing, to all the women who said no, you are not to blame for his hard, hungry hands, whether they came at you like raging fists or whether they gripped your face softly, at first, smiling at it and inviting you into the night, only later for you to meet the fingernails and full-weighted back of his hand to keep you there and press you down; to all the women who said no, you are not to blame; to all the women who feel ashamed, you are still the goddess and his hungry hands could not defile you more than mortals could defile a god; to all the women who feel sorry, you did not sin; to all the women who feel angry, I share your rage; to all the women who are too tired to feel rage, to all the women who feel empty, who feel blank, who feel Nothing, who feel small, I feel that most of all, too.

I can tell myself Polley brought it on himself, and that is true, but when I think of him raising his useless hands to ward off the knife-strokes of whoever was kneeling over him in that trash-littered underpass, I can’t help feeling sorry and ashamed. You may say I have no reason to feel shame, that I did what I had to do to save my life and the shed’s secret, but shame is like laughter. And inspiration. It doesn’t knock.

The worst part is that I want to turn this into a parable. I want to echo a rallying cry of inspiration that sings, Women, we are not alone; Women, these men do not defeat us; Women, these men do not define us; Women, I feel what you feel; Women, we, together, are strong, and for all the loud voices that said no or that didn’t have the freedom to but who still said 'please stop' or 'not right now' or 'I don’t know' or 'I don’t like that' which are all the same goddamn thing, to all the women who said no, you are not to blame for his hard, hungry hands, whether they came at you like raging fists or whether they gripped your face softly, at first, smiling at it and inviting you into the night, only later for you to meet the fingernails and full-weighted back of his hand to keep you there and press you down; to all the women who said no, you are not to blame; to all the women who feel ashamed, you are still the goddess and his hungry hands could not defile you more than mortals could defile a god; to all the women who feel sorry, you did not sin; to all the women who feel angry, I share your rage; to all the women who are too tired to feel rage, to all the women who feel empty, who feel blank, who feel Nothing, who feel small, I feel that most of all, too.

M. I’ve never really thought of M objectively before, as another person. She’s always been my mother I’ve hated or been ashamed of. Yet of all the lame ducks I’ve met or heard of, she’s the lamest. I’ve never given her enough sympathy. I haven’t given her this last year (since I left home) one half of the consideration I’ve given the beastly creature upstairs just this last week. I feel that I could overwhelm her with love now. Because I haven’t felt so sorry for her for years. I’ve always excused myself—I’ve said, I’m kind and tolerant with everyone else, she’s the one person I can’t be like that with, and there has to be an exception to the general rule. So it doesn’t matter. But of course that’s wrong. She’s the last person that should be an exception to the general rule. Minny and I have so often despised D for putting up with her. We ought to go down on our knees to him.

On the barns were peeling painted signs for RC Cola and Chesterfields and Jergen's Furniture and Holmes Appliances. We went around the towns where these stores were. The places practically begged you to take the detours--they put up so many signs for a bypass or a loop road, you would think they were ashamed of anyone actually driving through, seeing them. Our part of the world, I felt, was unpopular to people, and I was already sorry about this.

I fully intend to say all this to Wendell as I get comfortable on the couch, but instead all that comes out is a torrent of tears. Through the blur, I see the tissue box soaring toward me. Once again, I miss the catch. (In addition to being dumped, I think, I’ve become uncoordinated.) I’m both surprised by and ashamed of my outburst—we haven’t even greeted each other yet—and every time I try to pull it together, I get in a quick “I’m sorry” before I lose it again. For about five minutes, my session goes like this: Cry. Try to stop. Say, I’m sorry. Cry. Try to stop. Say, I’m sorry. Cry. Try to stop. Say, Oh God, I’m really sorry.

And what about your brother, Agus? Will he be entertaining us with his pipes?” “Agg,” Shanks rasped, wrinkling his nose. “I didn’t tell you? He ain’t with us no more.” A heavy fist slammed on the arm of the Viidun’s chair as he growled, “The idiot went off and got himself killed!” “What?” Derian and Eena replied in unison, both horrified by the news. “You heard me!” Shanks bellowed. “The crazy fool should’ve known when to duck. He died in a bloody challenge with some brainless Deramptium! A downright disgraceful way to die! I’m ashamed to say he was my brother!” “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” Eena muttered, mostly speaking to Derian. “What was that?” the Viidun demanded. Derian whispered a hush to Eena. Addressing Shanks, he expressed their condolences. “We are truly sorry for your loss. Your brother will be sorely missed. On the other hand, we look forward to welcoming you and your crew aboard the Kemeniroc.” Derian held up his right hand, extending his thumb and two adjoining fingers. “Strength, truth, and honor, friend,” he said, ending their conversation. “Strength, truth, and honor,” Shanks repeated. The screen went black. The captain turned to Eena who was still in shock. “You have to understand,” he explained, “the Viiduns are a fiercely competitive people with proud, warring ways. Their culture doesn’t call for much sympathy, especially when it appears one of their own has failed to live up to expectations.” Eena was still disturbed by the lack of compassion. “But that was his brother.” “I know. I can hardly believe it myself. Shanks and Agus were very close. They traveled everywhere together. All I can figure is it’s easier for Shanks to express his anger than his anguish.” “After all that, I’m not sure I want to meet him in person. He scares me,” she admitted. Derian laughed. “He scares everyone. That’s why you want to keep him as an ally and not make him an enemy.

What are you doing?’ he asked the drunkard, who was sitting silently in front of a collection of bottles, some empty and some full. ‘I’m drinking,’ replied the drunkard gloomily. ‘Why do you drink?’ the little prince asked. ‘To forget,’ replied the drunkard. ‘To forget what?’ enquired the little prince, who already felt sorry for him. ‘To forget that I’m ashamed,’ confessed the drunkard hanging his head. ‘Ashamed of what?’ asked the little prince, who wanted to help him. ‘Ashamed of drinking!’ ended the drunkard, with-drawing into a permanent silence. And the little prince left, puzzled. Grown-ups really are very strange, mused the little prince as he continued on his travels.

I’d set out to tell her I was sorry about dinner. But I know that my apology runs much deeper. That I’m ashamed I never tried to help her in the woods. That I let the Capitol kill the boy and mutilate her without lifting a finger. Just like I was watching the Games. I kick off my shoes and climb under the covers in my clothes. The shivering hasn’t stopped. Perhaps the girl doesn’t even remember me. But I know she does. You don’t forget the face of the person who was your last hope. I pull the covers up over my head as if this will protect me from the redheaded girl who can’t speak. But I can feel her eyes staring at me, piercing through walls and doors and bedding. I wonder if she’ll enjoy watching me die.

I didn’t know how to tell you . . .” “You didn’t know how to tell me? How about: ‘Cathy, I got fired because I was drunk at work’? How about that?” I flinch and her face softens. “I’m sorry, but honestly, Rachel.” She really is too nice. “What have you been doing? Where do you go? What do you do all day?” “I walk. Go to the library. Sometimes—” “You go to the pub?” “Sometimes. But—” “Why didn’t you tell me?” She approaches me, placing her hands on my shoulders. “You should have told me.” “I was ashamed,” I say, and I start to cry. It’s awful, cringeworthy, but I start to weep. I sob and sob, and poor Cathy holds me, strokes my hair, tells me I’ll be all right, that everything will be all right. I feel wretched. I hate myself almost more than I ever have.

Elsa and Mum and the letter share the silence for seconds and eternities and hummingbird wingbeats. Then Mum touches Elsa’s hand and tries to make the question sound as if it’s not so terribly important, just something she just thought of spontaneously: “What do you have from me?” Elsa stands in silence. Mum looks despondent. “I was just, well, you know. You said you had inherited certain things from your grandmother and from your father, and I was just thinking, you know . . .” She goes silent. Ashamed of herself as mothers are when they realize they have passed that point in life when they want more from their daughters than their daughters want from them. And Elsa puts her hands over Mum’s cheeks and says mildly: “Just everything else, Mum. I just have everything else from you.

*“Oh, well, that’s all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, Jim,” I says; “but what does these things stand for?” It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. You could see them first-rate now. Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash again. He had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that he couldn’t seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its place again right away. But when he did get the thing straightened around he looked at me steady without ever smiling, and says: “What do dey stan’ for? I’se gwyne to tell you. When I got all wore out wid work, en wid de callin’ for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz mos’ broke bekase you wuz los’, en I didn’ k’yer no’ mo’ what become er me en de raf’. En when I wake up en fine you back agin, all safe en soun’, de tears come, en I could a got down on my knees en kiss yo’ foot, I’s so thankful. En all you wuz thinkin’ ’bout wuz how you could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck dah is trash; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren’s en makes ’em ashamed.” Then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there without saying anything but that. But that was enough. It made me feel so mean I could almost kissed his foot to get him to take it back. It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and humble myself to a nigger; but I done it, and I warn’t ever sorry for it afterwards, neither. I didn’t do him no more mean tricks, and I wouldn’t done that one if I’d a knowed it would make him feel that way.

Weak and trembling from passion, Major Flint found that after a few tottering steps in the direction of Tilling he would be totally unable to get there unless fortified by some strong stimulant, and turned back to the club-house to obtain it. He always went dead-lame when beaten at golf, while Captain Puffin was lame in any circumstances, and the two, no longer on speaking terms, hobbled into the club-house, one after the other, each unconscious of the other's presence. Summoning his last remaining strength Major Flint roared for whisky, and was told that, according to regulation, he could not be served until six. There was lemonade and stone ginger-beer. You might as well have offered a man-eating tiger bread and milk. Even the threat that he would instantly resign his membership unless provided with drink produced no effect on a polite steward, and he sat down to recover as best he might with an old volume of Punch. This seemed to do him little good. His forced abstemiousness was rendered the more intolerable by the fact that Captain Puffin, hobbling in immediately afterwards, fetched from his locker a large flask of the required elixir, and proceeded to mix himself a long, strong tumblerful. After the Major's rudeness in the matter of the half-crown, it was impossible for any sailor of spirit to take the first step towards reconciliation. Thirst is a great leveller. By the time the refreshed Puffin had penetrated half-way down his glass, the Major found it impossible to be proud and proper any longer. He hated saying he was sorry (no man more) and he wouldn't have been sorry if he had been able to get a drink. He twirled his moustache a great many times and cleared his throat--it wanted more than that to clear it--and capitulated. "Upon my word, Puffin, I'm ashamed of myself for--ha!--for not taking my defeat better," he said. "A man's no business to let a game ruffle him." Puffin gave his alto cackling laugh. "Oh, that's all right, Major," he said. "I know it's awfully hard to lose like a gentleman." He let this sink in, then added: "Have a drink, old chap?" Major Flint flew to his feet. "Well, thank ye, thank ye," he said. "Now where's that soda water you offered me just now?" he shouted to the steward. The speed and completeness of the reconciliation was in no way remarkable, for when two men quarrel whenever they meet, it follows that they make it up again with corresponding frequency, else there could be no fresh quarrels at all. This one had been a shade more acute than most, and the drop into amity again was a shade more precipitous.

If you leave without me, I’ll just follow you. You can’t stop me, Cassie. How are you going to stop me?” I shrug helplessly, fighting back tears. “Shoot you, I guess.” “Like you shot the Crucifix Soldier?” The words hit me like a bullet between the shoulder blades. I whirl around and fling open the door. He flinches, but stands his ground. “How do you know about him?” Of course, there’s only one way he could know. “You read my diary.” “I didn’t think you were going to live.” “Sorry to disappoint you.” “I guess I wanted to know what happened—” “You’re lucky I left the gun downstairs or I would shoot you right now. Do you know how creepy that makes me feel, knowing you read that? How much did you read?” He lowers his eyes. A warm red blush spreads across his cheeks. “You read all of it, didn’t you?” I’m totally embarrassed. I feel violated and ashamed. It’s ten times worse than when I first woke up in Val’s bed and realized he had seen me naked. That was just my body. This was my soul. I punch him in the stomach. There’s no give at all; it’s like I hit a slab of concrete. “I can’t believe you,” I shout. “You sat there—just sat there—while I lied about Ben Parish. You knew the truth and you just sat there and let me lie!

Kestrel came often. One day, when she knew from Sarsine that Arin had returned home but she had not yet seen him, she went to the suite. She touched one of his violins, reaching furtively to pluck the highest string of the largest instrument. The sound was sour. The violin was ruined--no doubt all of them were. That is what happens when an instrument is left strung and uncased for ten years. A floorboard creaked somewhere in one of the outer chambers. Arin. He entered the room, and she realized that she had expected him. Why else had she come here so frequently, almost every day, if she hadn’t hoped that someone would notice and tell him to find her there? But even though she admitted to wanting to be here with him in his old rooms, she hadn’t imagined it would be like this. With her caught touching his things. Her gaze dropped. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It’s all right,” he said. “I don’t mind.” He lifted the violin off its nails and set it in her hands. It was light, but Kestrel’s arms lowered as if the violin’s hollowness were terribly heavy. She cleared her throat. “Do you still play?” He shook his head. “I’ve mostly forgotten how. I wasn’t good at it anyway. I loved to sing. Before the war, I worried that gift would leave me, the way it often does with boys. We grow, we change, our voices break. It doesn’t matter how well you sing when you’re nine years old, you know. Not when you’re a boy. When the change comes you just have to hope for the best…that your voice settles into something you can love again. My voice broke two years after the invasion. Gods, how I squeaked. And when my voice finally settled, it seemed like a cruel joke. It was too good. I hardly knew what to do with it. I felt so grateful to have this gift…and so angry, for it to mean so little. And now…” He shrugged, a self-deprecating gesture. “Well, I know I’m rusty.” “No,” Kestrel said. “You’re not. Your voice is beautiful.” The silence after that was soft. Her fingers curled around the violin. She wanted to ask Arin a question yet couldn’t bear to do it, couldn’t say that she didn’t understand what had happened to him the night of the invasion. It didn’t make sense. The death of his family was what her father would call a “waste of resources.” The Valorian force had had no pity for the Herrani military, but it had tried to minimize civilian casualties. You can’t make a dead body work. “What is it, Kestrel?” She shook her head. She set the violin back on the wall. “Ask me.” She remembered standing outside the governor’s palace and refusing to hear his story, and was ashamed once more. “You can ask me anything,” he said. Each question seemed the wrong one. Finally, she said, “How did you survive the invasion?” He didn’t speak at first. Then he said, “My parents and sister fought. I didn’t.” Words were useless, pitifully useless--criminal, even, in how they could not account for Arin’s grief, and could not excuse how her people had lived on the ruin of his. Yet again Kestrel said, “I’m sorry.” “It’s not your fault.” It felt as if it was. Arin led the way out of his old suite. When they came to the last room, the greeting room, he paused before the outermost door. It was the slightest of hesitations, no longer than if the second hand of a clock stayed a beat longer on its mark than it should. But in that fraction of time, Kestrel understood that the last door was not paler than the others because it had been made from a different wood. It was newer. Kestrel took Arin’s battered hand in hers, the rough heat of it, the fingernails still ringed with carbon from the smith’s coal fire. His skin was raw-looking: scrubbed clean and scrubbed often. But the black grime was too ingrained. She twined her fingers with his. Kestrel and Arin walked together through the passageway and the ghost of its old door, which her people had smashed through ten years before.

Here are two examples of just how strange and unique humans can be when they go about harming one another and caring for one another. The first example involves, well, my wife. So we’re in the minivan, our kids in the back, my wife driving. And this complete jerk cuts us off, almost causing an accident, and in a way that makes it clear that it wasn’t distractedness on his part, just sheer selfishness. My wife honks at him, and he flips us off. We’re livid, incensed. Asshole-where’s-the-cops-when-you-need-them, etc. And suddenly my wife announces that we’re going to follow him, make him a little nervous. I’m still furious, but this doesn’t strike me as the most prudent thing in the world. Nonetheless, my wife starts trailing him, right on his rear. After a few minutes the guy’s driving evasively, but my wife’s on him. Finally both cars stop at a red light, one that we know is a long one. Another car is stopped in front of the villain. He’s not going anywhere. Suddenly my wife grabs something from the front seat divider, opens her door, and says, “Now he’s going to be sorry.” I rouse myself feebly—“Uh, honey, do you really think this is such a goo—” But she’s out of the car, starts pounding on his window. I hurry over just in time to hear my wife say, “If you could do something that mean to another person, you probably need this,” in a venomous voice. She then flings something in the window. She returns to the car triumphant, just glorious. “What did you throw in there!?” She’s not talking yet. The light turns green, there’s no one behind us, and we just sit there. The thug’s car starts to blink a very sensible turn indicator, makes a slow turn, and heads down a side street into the dark at, like, five miles an hour. If it’s possible for a car to look ashamed, this car was doing it. “Honey, what did you throw in there, tell me?” She allows herself a small, malicious grin. “A grape lollipop.” I was awed by her savage passive-aggressiveness—“You’re such a mean, awful human that something must have gone really wrong in your childhood, and maybe this lollipop will help correct that just a little.” That guy was going to think twice before screwing with us again. I swelled with pride and love.

Their Graces bought me, you know. They’d acquired my brother Devlin the year before, and my mother, inspired by this development, threatened to publish all manner of lurid memoirs regarding His Grace.” Acquired her brother? As if he were a promising yearling colt or an attractive patch of ground? “You are going to burden me with the details of your family past, I take it?” “You are the man who glories in details.” Without the least rude inflection, she made it sound like a failing. “My point is that my mother sold me. She could just as easily have sold me to a brothel. It’s done all the time. Unlike your sisters, Mr. Hazlit, I do not take for granted the propriety with which I was raised. You may ignore it if you please; I will not.” She had such a lovely voice. Light, soft, lilting with a hint of something Gaelic or Celtic… exotic. The sound of her voice was so pretty, it almost disguised the ugliness of her words. “How old were you?” “Five, possibly six. It depends on whether I am truly Moreland’s by-blow or just a result of my mother’s schemes in his direction.” Six years old and sold to a brothel? The food he’d eaten threatened to rebel. “I’m… sorry.” For calling her a dollymop, for making her repeat this miserable tale, for what he was about to suggest. She turned her head to regard him, the slight sheen in her eyes making him sorrier still. Sorrier than he could recall being about anything in a long, long time. Not just guilty and ashamed, but full of regret—for her. The way he’d been full of regret for his sisters and powerless to do anything but support them in their solitary struggles. He shoved that thought aside, along with the odd notion that he should take Magdalene Windham’s hand in some laughable gesture of comfort. He passed her his handkerchief instead. “This makes the stated purpose of my call somewhat awkward.” “It makes just about everything somewhat awkward,” she said quietly. “Try a few years at finishing school when you’re the daughter of not just a courtesan—there are some of those, after all—but a courtesan who sells her offspring. I realized fairly early that my mother’s great failing was not a lack of virtue, but rather that she was greedy in her fall from grace.” “She exploited a child,” Hazlit said. “That is an order of magnitude different from parlaying with an adult male in a transaction of mutual benefit.” “Do you think so?” She laid his handkerchief out in her lap, her fingers running over his monogrammed initials. “Some might say she was protecting me, providing for me and holding the duke accountable for his youthful indiscretions.” Despite her mild tone, Hazlit didn’t think Miss Windham would reach those conclusions. She might long to, but she wouldn’t. By the age of six a child usually had the measure of her caretakers. And to think of Maggie Windham at six… big innocent green eyes, masses of red hair, perfect skin… in a brothel. “I

She didn't realize she was weeping until the brother's pained whisper broke the choking silence. "Are they for me?" Her nose was running now. She sniffed, sniffed again, flashed a smile that was too quick, too false. "Are what for you?" "Why, your tears, of course." Oh, Lord. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak for fear she'd give in to the great, wracking pain that threatened to burst from her. This man, suffering so quietly, so bravely, did not deserve to see tears; he needed hope, comfort, encouragement from her, not an appalling display of weakness. She suddenly felt selfish and ashamed — and guilty, too. After all, the tears were not even for him, poor man. They were for Charles. "I'm not crying," she managed, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her sleeve and staring out the window to hide the evidence. "No?"  He gave a weak smile. "Perhaps I should see for myself." And then she felt them; his fingers, brushing her damp cheek with infinite softness and concern, tracing the slippery track of her sorrow. It was a caress — achingly kind, gentle, sweet. She stiffened and caught his hand, holding it away from her face and shutting her eyes on a deep, bracing breath lest that dam of her self-control break for good. She managed to get herself under control, and when she finally dared meet his gaze, she saw that he was looking quietly up at her, at her distressed face and the tears she was trying so valiantly to hold back. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, gently. She shook her head. "Are you quite certain?" "Lord Gareth, you're the one who's hurt, not me." "No. That is not true."  His eyes searching her face, he touched her other cheek, the one the highwayman had cuffed, his whole manner one of such gentle, selfless concern that she wanted to lash out at someone, something, for this injustice that had been done to him. "I saw that … that scoundrel strike you. If I could kill him all over again for that, I would. Why, your poor cheek still bears the mark of his hand...." "I am fine." "But —" "Dear heavens, Lord Gareth, must you keep at it so?" The words had come out angrier than she intended. She saw the sudden shadow of confusion that moved across his eyes, and a sharp pang of remorse lanced her heart for having put it there. Her anger was not for him, but at the fates that had taken first one of these dashing brothers and would now, most likely, take another. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. And here he was worried about her cheek, her silly, stupid cheek, when his life's blood was oozing all over her skirts and onto the seat, and his flesh was feeling colder and clammier by the moment. She wanted to cry. Wanted to put her head in her hands and bawl until all the grief and pain and rage and loneliness still locked inside her was purged. But she did not. Instead, she took a deep breath and met his questioning gaze. Same romantic eyes. Same kindness in their depths, same concern for other people. Oh, God ... help me. "I'm sorry," she murmured, shaking her head. "That was unfair. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm so sorry...." "Please, don't be."  He smiled, weakly. "Besides, if those tears are for me, I can assure you there is no need to waste them so. I shall not die.

Syn paid the bill and they headed to the door with lust so thick around them, Syn couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else could see it. Furi reached back for Syn’s hand and he gladly offered it. He looked over his shoulder and threw him a seductive wink when Syn crowded in close behind him. As soon as Syn made it out the door, he saw four members of his team walking up the sidewalk. Well fuck me. “Hey, Sarge.” Pendleton, his demolitions expert was the first to speak up. Syn threw down Furi’s hand and quickly put some distance between them. “Yeah, hey fellas.” They’d all stopped and were staring back and forth between him and Furi. Syn couldn’t even look Furious in his eye after what he’d just done. Detective Green cleared his throat and pointed at Furi. “Don’t I know you?” “Hardly,” Furi mumbled. “Um, this is ... uh, uh. He’s my ... uh.” Syn cursed under his breath. Obviously his team already knew who Furious was. They all had detailed lists of Illustra’s entertainers and Furious’ image was not easy to forget. “Sarge, who’s your friend?” Detective Ruxsburg asked, a sly smile playing on his handsome face. “He’s um.” “He’s leaving,” Furi’s deep voice cut in as he eased his way through and walked in the opposite direction of Syn’s truck. “Fuck,” Syn whispered as he watched Furi turn the corner. “You better go after him and be ready to do some serious groveling,” his IT Detective said in his calm, cool voice. Syn didn’t say anything. His guys walked around him and went into the bar, leaving him feeling ashamed. He thought about running after Furi but choose to get in his truck and cut him off at the corner. He sped around the block and pulled into an alley hoping to intercept his angry date. When Syn got out of the truck Furi was turning the corner coming toward him. Oh hell. Furi had his hands crammed into his pockets and if the scowl on his face didn’t indicate how angry Furious was, then his choice of words when he finally reached Syn sure as hell did. “Get the fuck away from me.” “Furious, I know you're upset.” Furi spun around and glared at him with midnight eyes. “Upset! Upset! Look at my face goddamnit! Does this just look upset to you?” Syn put his hands up in a calming gesture. “Alright, you’re angry, and you have every right to be. I reacted badly back there. I was just caught off guard.” Furi was in Syn’s face and people on the street had begun to stop and stare. “Can we please move this off the sidewalk?” Syn tried to usher Furi farther into the alley and away from the nosy fuckers on the street. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” “I’m not gonna touch you! Damn, calm down. I just want to explain,” Syn argued. It seemed every time he was around Furi he was apologizing for something. “I’m sorry, okay. I should have introduced you properly to my team.” “How would the–” “Please, Furious. Let me finish. I should’ve told them your name and introduced you as my friend at a minimum. I’m sorry. I told you I fuckin’ suck at this dating shit, and if you don’t tell me to go fuck myself and give me another–” “Go fuck yourself,” Furi interrupted. He tried to move around Syn but Syn grabbed him around the wrist and backed him against the side of his truck. “No! I will not go fuck myself. I would rather fuck you.” “Well you pretty much shot that chance all to hell,” Furi yelled right back at him. “Have I?” “What do you think?

Forgive me I hope you are feeling better. I am, thank you. Will you not sit down? In vain I have struggled. It will not do! My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. In declaring myself thus I'm fully aware that I will be going expressly against the wishes of my family, my friends, and, I hardly need add, my own better judgement. The relative situation of our families is such that any alliance between us must be regarded as a highly reprehensible connection. Indeed as a rational man I cannot but regard it as such myself, but it cannot be helped. Almost from the earliest moments of our acquaintance I have come to feel for you a passionate admiration and regard, which despite of my struggles, has overcome every rational objection. And I beg you, most fervently, to relieve my suffering and consent to be my wife. In such cases as these, I believe the established mode is to express a sense of obligation. But I cannot. I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I'm sorry to cause pain to anyone, but it was most unconsciously done, and, I hope, will be of short duration. And this is all the reply I am to expect? I might wonder why, with so little effort at civility, I am rejected. And I might wonder why, with so evident a desire to offend and insult me you chose to tell me that you like me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character! Was this not some excuse for incivility if I was uncivil? I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. Do you think any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining the happiness of a most beloved sister? Can you deny that you have done it? I have no wish to deny it. I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, and I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself. But it's not merely that on which my dislike of you is founded. Long before it had taken place, my dislike of you was decided when I heard Mr Wickham's story of your dealings with him. How can you defend yourself on that subject? You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns! And of your infliction! You have reduced him to his present state of poverty, and yet you can treat his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule! And this is your opinion of me? My faults by this calculation are heavy indeed, but perhaps these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by the honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design on you, had I concealed my struggles and flattered you. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly below my own? You are mistaken, Mr Darcy. The mode of your declaration merely spared me any concern I might have felt in refusing you had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner. You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it. From the very beginning, your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others. I had known you a month before I felt you were the last man in the world whom I could ever marry! You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings and now have only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Please forgive me for having taken up your time and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness. Forgive me. I hope you are feeling better. I am, thank you. Will you no

Paul was not ashamed of this gospel. Are you? Surely not! But if you have not embraced it, I urge you to pray this prayer now—wherever you are: Lord Jesus Christ, I need You. I want You. I am sorry for my sins. Wash my sins away by Your blood. I know I cannot save myself. I transfer my trust in my good works to what You did for me on the cross. I welcome Your Holy Spirit into my heart. As best as I know how, I give You my life. Amen. If you prayed that prayer, share it! Tell at least one other person today. From this day forward pray daily. Read your Bible daily.

It wasn't the worst time when Melody left me," the Professor said. "The worst time was the years before. Because I didn't know I couldn't hate anybody that much; it was like she'd stuck a sword into me, one of those Japanese samurai swords, do you know the kind I mean? Heavy and razor sharp-and she'd stuck it in me and then she was...pushing it around." His hand rested on his stomach, remembering. "I couldn't get free from the feelings. I didn't know how frightened I could be, all the time. But whenever we had to go out together, she'd smile at me and talk to me and listen and look at me the way she did-and I wanted to hit her," he said, his voice low and ashamed. Jeff let his head down to rest on his fists. "When I found out how many lies she was telling me, I finally realized that she had always lied to me. About my lectures. About boyfriends; and even after she knew I knew, she'd still lie about it. I hated her. Or the bills she ran up, without asking, without telling; then she'd say she'd taken care of them but she just-ignore them. I know I looked all right to other people-maybe more of a dry stick than usual, maybe even more of boring than usual-but inside I was knotted up, all the time, because I hated her so much, and I hated myself, and I was scared." Jeff looked up at his father. "I didn't think she'd do that to you, Jeff," the Professor said. "But she did, didn't she." Jeff nodded. He knew he was crying, but he didn't know what to do about it. Neither did the Professor. He just sat and waited, until Jeff got up to blow his nose. "It was the lies," the Professor said. "They were what really scared me. Even now, if I think about her-and the kinds of things she says....I don't know what she told you, but I never was sorry I'd married her or loved her because of you. You always made a difference, made a real difference, from the very beginning. I always knew that, inside me, but I didn't bother to learn how to show you. I'm sorry, Jeff, I should have taken the trouble.

I’m sorry,” I said. I felt unbearably ashamed. “I’m sorry.” “What for?” “For being a blind, self-satisfied ass. For not seeing . . .

A water-bearer in India had two large pots hanging at the ends of a pole that he carried across his neck. One of the pots was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master’s house. The other pot had a crack in it, and by the time it reached its destination, it was only half full. Every day for two years the water-bearer delivered only one and one-half pots of water to the master’s house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments—perfect to the end for which it was made. The poor little cracked pot was ashamed of its imperfections and miserable that it could accomplish only half of what it had been designed to do. After two years of what the imperfect pot perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water-bearer and said, “I am ashamed of myself and I want to apologize to you.” “Why?” asked the water-bearer. “What are you ashamed of?” “Well, for these past two years, I have been able to deliver only half a load of water each day because this crack in my side allows water to leak out the whole way back to the master’s house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all this work without getting the full value of your efforts,” the pot said. The water-bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, “As we return to the master’s house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path.” Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot noticed the beautiful wildflowers on the side of the path. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because half of its load had leaked out once again. Then the water-bearer said to the pot, “Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path and not on the other pot’s side? That’s because I’ve always known about your flaw and took advantage of it by planting flower seeds on your side of the path. Every day as we walked back from the stream, you watered those seeds, and for two years I have picked these beautiful flowers to decorate my master’s table. Without you being just what you are, he would not have had this beauty to grace his house.”1 Like that cracked pot, you too can accomplish wonderful things. It doesn’t matter that you have flaws and limitations. Don’t let what you perceive to be a weakness keep you from taking bold steps inspired by hope. 2 Corinthians 12:10 says: “… When I am weak [in human strength], then am I [truly] strong (able, powerful in divine strength).” Isn’t that comforting to know? Even when you’re weak, you’re strong because God is with you. He is using every part of your life—even the cracks—to create something beautiful. Get Your Hopes Up!

I admire you.” I shoot him an awed glance and shake my head. “How you so easily dismiss the attention.” Then I loosen the elastic band on my hair and pull it to my sides to use it as a curtain to hide my face. He watches me in confusion. I can feel people staring at us now, and uncomfortably, I grab the aviators he just pulled out and slip them on my face. He looks down at me with a half smile and eyes narrowed in speculation. “Want a fake mustache with that?” “I’m good.” I grin. I follow him to the car and we don’t bother to set the bag in the trunk. The car is super spacious anyway. He opens the door before Otis can fully make it and we ease inside. “Rachel . . .” He falls sober, plucking off the aviators. I’m smiling, but I also feel ashamed. “Sin, I’m sorry.” I drop my face. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to the attention you get.” “Don’t notice it. Don’t give it even a moment’s thought. I never do.” “Hmm.” My mouth twists wryly. “It’s not only the attention, but wondering what lies they’ll put out . . . having no control over that.” I feel my heart squeeze a little as our eyes meet, him sitting across from me, broad and muscular and drop-dead gorgeous. And I admit the closest thing I can say to I love you. “It’s hard when everyone stares at the man you want, and you want him to want nobody but you.” He simply says two words that melt me. “He does.

My sister came out to the porch to meet us. I knew she missed having me around the house. We spent most of our time together and often shared a bed at night. I wondered what she did when the nightmares bothered her now. “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling guilty as I hugged her. “You should be,” she teased, clearly having no idea what I was talking about. “We’re all ashamed of you.

We look at our fellow men too much from the standpoint of our own prejudices. They may be wrong, they may have their faults and foibles, they may call out all the meanest and most hateful in us. But they are not all wrong; they have their virtues, and when they excite our bad passions by their own, they may be as ashamed and sorry as we are irritated. And I think some of the best, most contrite, most useful of men and women, whose prayers prevail with God and bring down blessings into the homes in which they dwell, often possess unlovely traits that furnish them with their best discipline. The very fact that they are ashamed of themselves drives them to God; they feel safe in His presence. And while they lie in the very dust of self-confusion as His feet, they are dear to Him and have power with Him.

While Iris mercilessly teased Christine until the poor girl looked ready to start flinging icicles, Alex and Andrew continued their merciless assault on Kevin. “You put the ‘k’ in otaku.” “When people look up otaku in the dictionary, they see your face.” “You’ve even got an otaku meme on Twitter.” “Shut up! I am not an otaku!” Kevin stood up and slammed his hands on the stone table. He glared at his friends. “I’m not! Just because I like anime that doesn’t mean I’m an otaku. And you two have no right to say anything!” He pointed an accusing finger at Alex and Andrew. “You watch and read just as much anime and manga as I do!” “You make a good point,” Alex admitted. “It doesn’t change the fact that you are, indeed, an otaku.” Andrew nodded at his brother’s words. “Only a true otaku would deny being otaku.” “No, they wouldn’t! Otaku are people who proudly proclaim their status even though they know others will look down on them for it. That’s half the reason they get such a bad rep in Japan, and even then, Japanese society has begun to accept otaku culture more readily in the last few years. I once read an article on Rocket News 24 that some people are beginning to think that being otaku isn’t something to be ashamed of.” “And how could you possibly know that unless you were an otaku?” Iris teased. Kevin grabbed his hair and threw his head back. “Arggghhh!” “Poor Kevin.” Lilian giggled. “Getting ganged up on by everyone.” “Ha…” Kevin sat down and pouted at his mate. “You’re not really helping me out, you know. You should be backing me up.” “I can only back you up when something isn’t true.” “Now you’re just being mean.” “I’m sorry,” Lilian said in mock contrite, her eyes glittering with mirth. “Would a hug make it better?” Kevin sniffled. “Maybe.” Lilian spread her arms wide. “Okay. Come here, Kevin.” “Lilian.” “Kevin!” “Lilian!” “Would you two knock it off already!” Christine snapped out of her state of perpetual humiliation long enough to shout at the hugging couple.

I believe in American political principles, and I will not sit idly by and see those principles destroyed by sorry practice. I am ashamed that American government should have become the chief cause of disillusionment with American principles.

A Letter to My Heart I am sorry for not being there for you. I am sorry for ignoring your cries. For not thinking things through before I threw you out to the most eager attention-giver on the block. I am sorry I disregarded your pain and made you show up for the ones you knew would habitually abuse you. I am ashamed that I let them torture you and keep you a prisoner in lackluster love. I am sorry I never tucked you in at night and told you how proud I am of you, and how utterly strong you are. I am sorry for the weeds I let infiltrate your chambers. I am sorry for being a negligent caretaker. I am so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?

I am not sorry, merely ashamed.

So I should also pretend you didn't bring up my James Beard Award, like it's something to be ashamed of?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Sorry you run a conveyor-belt restaurant." Her voice was full of acid, but she blinked, then quickly looked down. A conveyor-belt restaurant? He deserved her rage, but he'd offered an olive branch and she snapped it in half. "I know what you think of me, Nina. The only food worth eating costs a month's rent, right? How's that going for you? I heard the LA location is in trouble now, too.

Look! Look at yourself! You’re a mess! A disgusting mess.” Maddy stifled a scream, falling to her knees. “Please, Papa,” she begged. “I’m sorry.” “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, going out in public? Letting people see you like this? Do you want to be a Negro?

Let there be light. Gen. 1:3 Let there be enlightenment; let there be understanding. Darkness. Gen. 1:4 Ignorance; lack of enlightenment and understanding. Eden. Gen. 2:8 A delightful place; temporal life. Garden. Gen. 2:8 Metaphorically—a wife; a family. Tree of life in the midst of the garden. Gen. 2:9 Sex; posterity, progeny. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Gen. 2:9 Moral law; the knowledge of good and evil. The tree of life. Gen. 2:9 Eternal life. The tree of good and evil. Gen. 2:17 Metaphorically—sexual relationship. Good. Gen. 2:17 Anything perfect. Evil. Gen. 2:17 Anything imperfect; contrary to good; immature. Naked. Gen. 2:25 Exposed; ashamed. Serpent. Gen. 3:1 An enemy; deception. Thorns and thistles. Gen. 3:18 Grievances and difficulties. Sent forth from the garden. Gen. 3:23 A loss of harmony; a lost paradise. God took him away. Gen. 5:24 He died painlessly. He had a heart attack. Sons of God. Gen. 6:2 Good men; the descendants of Seth. My spirit shall not dwell in man forever. Gen. 6:3 I have become weary and impatient. (A scribal note.) The Lord was sorry that He made man. Gen. 6:6 (A scribal note. See Old Testament Light—Lamsa.) I set my bow in the clouds. Gen. 9:13 I set the rainbow in the sky. I have lifted up my hands. Gen. 14:22 I am taking a solemn oath. Thy seed. Gen. 17:7 Your offspring; your teaching. Angels. Gen. 19:1 God’s counsel; spirits; God’s thoughts. Looking behind. Gen. 19:17 Regretting; wasting time. A pillar of salt. Gen. 19:26 Lifeless; stricken dead. As the stars of heaven. Gen. 22:17 Many in number; a great multitude. Went in at the gate. Gen. 23:18 Mature men who sat at the counsel. Hand under thigh. Gen. 24:2 Hand under girdle; a solemn oath. Tender eyed. Gen. 29:17 Attractive eyes. He hath sold us. Gen. 31:15 He has devoured our dowry. Wrestling with an angel. Gen. 32:24 Being suspicious of a pious man. Coat of many colors. Gen. 37:23 A coat with long sleeves meaning learning, honor and a high position. Spilling seed on the ground. Gen. 38:9 Spilling semen on the ground. (An ancient practice of birth control.) No man shall lift up his hand or foot. Gen. 41:44 No man shall do anything without your approval. Put his hand upon thine eyes. Gen. 46:4 Shall close your eyes upon your death bed. Laying on of hands. Gen. 48:14 Blessing and approving a person. His right hand upon the head. Gen. 48:17 A sincere blessing. Unstable as water. Gen. 49:4 Undecided; in a dilemma. The sceptre shall not depart from Judah. Gen. 49:10 There shall always be a king from the lineage of Judah. Washed his garments in wine. Gen. 49:11 He will become an owner of many vineyards. His teeth white with milk. Gen. 49:12 He will have abundant flocks of sheep. His bow abode in strength. Gen. 49:24 He will become a valiant warrior. The stone of Israel. Gen. 49:24 The strong race of Israel. He gathered up his feet. Gen. 49:33 He stretched out his feet—He breathed his last breathe; he died.

Don’t be ashamed for allowing yourself to feel, little brother,” came the quiet words. “You should rather feel sorry for those who do not. They are either cripples—or very sick in soul.” As

Beatrice finally broke the awkward silence. “I’m sorry.” She shrugged her shoulders and looked vacantly past us. “I know we have reached an end.” We hung our heads, ashamed. It was, I suspected, not the first time that a patient had consoled a doctor about the ineffectuality of his discipline.

He recalled that when the sun had risen that morning, he was on another continent, still a shepherd with sixty sheep, and looking forward to meeting with a girl. That morning he had known everything that was going to happen to him as he walked through the familiar fields. But now, as the sun began to set, he was in a different country, a stranger in a strange land, where he couldn’t even speak the language. He was no longer a shepherd, and he had nothing, not even the money to return and start everything over. All this happened between sunrise and sunset, the boy thought. He was feeling sorry for himself, and lamenting the fact that his life could have changed so suddenly and so drastically. He was so ashamed that he wanted to cry. He had never even wept in front of his own sheep. But the marketplace was empty, and he was far from home, so he wept. He wept because God was unfair, and because this was the way God repaid those who believed in their dreams. When I had my sheep, I was happy, and I made those around me happy. People saw me coming and welcomed me, he thought. But now I’m sad and alone. I’m going to become bitter and distrustful of people because one person betrayed me. I’m going to hate those who have found their treasure because I never found mine. And I’m going to hold on to what little I have, because I’m too insignificant to conquer the world. He opened his pouch to see what was left of his possessions; maybe there was a bit left of the sandwich he had eaten on the ship. But all he found was the heavy book, his jacket, and the two stones the old man had given him. As he looked at the stones, he felt relieved for some reason. He had exchanged six sheep for two precious stones that had been taken from a gold breastplate. He could sell the stones and buy a return ticket. But this time I’ll be smarter, the boy thought, removing them from the pouch so he could put them in his pocket.

I am a servant for my mothers unhappiness. I can make myself smaller, mother, I can become quieter. I am a wound that you can’t stop picking. I take scraps from dinner as little parts of love. I know that I am not easy to love. I know I wear my sadness so visibly that you’ve become ashamed of me. Make me small, crush me up in the palms of your hands. Destroy me for breakfast and devour me for lunch, leave nothing left of me, not even for the birds. Eat me. Eat me up. It’s too late to apologise now, sorry means nothing when you’re choking on my leftovers.

Must I come myself to fetch you, as if you were a little child?” “No,” Bran said, ashamed. “I’m sorry. I only wanted …” “I know what you wanted,” Maester Luwin said, more gently. “Would that it could be, Bran. Do you have any questions before we begin this audience?” “Will we talk of the war?” “You will talk of naught.” The sharpness was back in Luwin’s voice. “You are still a child of eight …

The vote only empowers you to represent abilities, whereas the beauty of work and actuality of capability qualify you as a true leader; otherwise, the majority vote is just a power game, not insight.” Ziauddin Khawaja, known as Ziauddin Butt, in the military coup against the elected Prime Minister of Pakistan, Nawaz Sharif, on October 12, 1999, under secret and mutual interests, assured the four corps commanders of that time of their loyalty to the army and in favor of General Musharraf. Military treachery was preferred over democratic values and the constitutional protection of the elected Prime Minister. If General Butt was a patriot, the worst general in history, Musharraf, would never have dared to hand over our beloved country to foreign forces. Every general tries to be a patriot and a hero after retirement. As many generals as there were in Pakistan and they broke, abrogated, or suspended the constitution from any angle, they were and are complete traitors to the Pakistani state, nation, and constitution, but also to the morale of the great forces, along with the traitorous judges of the judiciary, who participated equally. Not repeating such factors is a nation’s survival; otherwise, there will be no uniforms and no freedom. Staying within every institution’s limits is patriotism; give exemplary proof of your patriotism, and you are all subservient to the Constitution and those elected under the Constitution. Your oath is your declaration of respect and protection of democratic values; its violation is treason against the country and nation. On the other hand, Pakistani political parties and their leadership do not qualify in the context of politics since, if they are in power or opposition, they seek favor from the Armed Forces for their democratic dictatorship. The honest fact is that Pakistanis neither wanted nor wished to establish real democratic values and their enforcement. Lawmakers are unqualified and incapable of fulfilling the context of the Constitution, which is the essence of a pure and honest democracy with fair and transparent elections as per the will of voters, which never happened in Pakistan. Examples are visible and open to the world, even though no one feels sorry or ashamed for such an immoral, illegitimate, and unconstitutional mindset and trend of the Pakistani leadership of all political parties. Huge and widespread corruption is a threat to the Pakistani economy and people’s prosperity. IMF support and other benefits go into the hands of corrupt officials instead of prioritizing the well-being of society or individuals. Imposing taxes without prosperity in society and for people who already live below the poverty line is economic violence, not a beneficial impact. The fact is bare that the establishment misuses leaders and leaders misuse the establishment, which has become a national trend; consequently, state, nation, and constitution remain football for them, and they have been playing it for more than seven decades, losing the resources of land and people for their conflicts of interest. I can only suggest that you stop such a game before you defeat yourself.

Aren’t you ashamed to be so lost? We have our own sorry excuse, but you?” “I died a long time ago,” said Dirk. “The old man tried to kill me, but I died before he could manage it.” “Listen to me.” The woman spoke in a cold voice. “We’re all severed—we are, the forest is, you are—it’s the nature of the world. Some agents can recover. For themselves, for us, for others. What are you waiting for?” “List is not an address, it’s not permission to fail, it’s not an excuse.” With shocking vigor, like that of a young warrior, the creature hopped upon the ground and approached on cloven hoof. “It’s a reason to read the world.

Aren’t you ashamed to be so lost? We have our own sorry excuse, but you?” “I died a long time ago,” said Dirk. “The old man tried to kill me, but I died before he could manage it.” “Listen to me.” The woman spoke in a cold voice. “We’re all severed—we are, the forest is, you are—it’s the nature of the world. Some agents can recover. For themselves, for us, for others. What are you waiting for?” “Lost is not an address, it’s not permission to fail, it’s not an excuse.” With shocking vigor, like that of a young warrior, the creature hopped upon the ground and approached on cloven hoof. “It’s a reason to read the world.

Don’t be afraid of me, detective,” Steele whispered, watching closely as Tech’s long lashes fluttered over his intelligent eyes. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I truly am. I promise... I swear on my fallen brothers that I’ll never ever hurt you like that again. I wouldn’t’ve come back if I didn’t think I could control myself… especially around you. I’m ashamed of what I did.” Tech’s breath came out in shallow gusts while he let Steele continue to touch him. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to offend you, either… or hurt you.

Lithuanian citizens are the rudest and most animalistic I have ever seen in Europe. They have no moral, no values, and no manners. They are always starring at others, judging with their eyes of ignorance and their very small conscience, they are very rude, they are impolite wherever you go, and their customer service is horrible. They never say sorry for anything and even offend you when you complain about their mistakes and lack of proper attitude. Besides, eating in Lithuania is a huge disaster. Food is often rotten, and commonly comes with either hair, stones of even glass, as I have found many times. These people should be ashamed to be part of Europe and be removed from the European Union. They waste money as I have never seen anywhere else and are very abusive in prices. Their prices are high but their quality level is not even suitable for animals. They represent a waste on foreign investments. Their youngest generation is also a disaster: Extremely ignorant, without any respect or education, they deserve to be unemployed and starve to death. Nobody in his right mind should ever employ a Lithuanian, marry a Lithuanian or be friend with a Lithuanian. Lithuanias are always trying to use their friendships to take advantage of others, especially if such people are outsiders. Lithuanian women are gold diggers and extremely promiscuous, especially towards men of other cultures, as if their pride was built on the number of sex partners they can have from the widest variety of nations from around the globe, especially if such men are wealthy. Nevertheless, Lithuanians are also extremely racist and ignorant about the planet they live in. They are selfish, sadistic and parasitic. Probably the same could be said about all baltic countries, namely, Latvia, but for now, it is suffice to say this statement is an undoubted fact for the country in analysis. If Latvian and Lithuanian sovereignty ever end within this generation due to major unemployment, massacres and civil wars, and the vast majority of its people perish, I would say Divine justice has been made on both nations.

I could have killed you,” he said savagely. “You didn’t.” “I could have hurt you.” “You didn’t do that, either.” “God, Beatrix.” Christopher went to sit heavily at a hearthside chair, glass in hand. She followed him in a rustle of lavender silk. “I’m not Beatrix, actually. I’m her much nicer twin. She said you could have me from now on.” Her gaze flickered to the Armagnac. “You promised not to drink spirits.” “We’re not married yet.” Christopher knew he should have been ashamed of the sneering echo of her own earlier words, but the temptation was too much to resist. Beatrix didn’t flinch. “I’m sorry about that. It’s no fun, caring about my welfare. I’m reckless. I overestimate my abilities.” She lowered to the floor at his feet, resting her arms on his knees. Her earnest blue eyes, starred with heavy dark lashes, stared contritely into his. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did earlier. For my family, arguing is a sport--we forget that some people tend to take it personally.” One of her fingertips drew an intricate little pattern on his thigh. “But I have redeeming qualities,” she continued. “I never mind dog hair, example. And I can pick up small objects with my toes, which is a surprisingly useful talent.” Christopher’s numbness started melting like spring ice. And it had nothing to do with the Armagnac. It was all Beatrix. God, he adored her.

that’s why Kathleen.” Alfred doesn’t answer. We sit in silence until he says, “I’m sorry you walked in on us. I’m a hypocrite. Maybe you even like that I’m one.” “Come on, Alfred.” He looks up at me. “At least let me be ashamed of myself.” “Too late. Self-flagellation is not going to help you now.” “It’s over. With Kathleen, I mean.” “That’s a start.” “What else can I do? I can’t even face myself. I have to tell Pamela.” “Oh

I was not frightened, but I was ashamed. “I’m sorry,” I said. The claws retreated, and his arm dropped. “Don’t be,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you.” He looked at me. “But perhaps you mind being told.

Sarah Matthews, is that you?” the man repeated again, using Jesse’s beloved slow drawl. “Don’t you know me, Sarah-girl?” “Jesse? Jesse Holt?” A smile spread across the lean, beard-stubbled cheeks. Jesse’s smile. “The very same.” She tried nonetheless to hold on to the reality she had known for almost a year now. “You can’t be Jesse, mister. Jesse Holt is dead. Jesse never came back from the war.” The stranger masquerading as Jesse had the grace to look ashamed. Taking his eyes off her face, he stared at the line he was toeing in the mud in the street. “Yes, well, I’m sorry about that. I never meant to make you wait that long. I can tell you’re surprised to see me. How are you, Goldilocks?” She had never liked this nickname Jesse had given her, but his use of it established beyond all doubt that the man walking toward her, so near now that she could almost reach out and touch him, was really her long-lost fiancé Jesse Holt. “Where have you been?” She was surprised at the surge of anger she felt within her, and she could tell by the way his eyes widened, then narrowed, that he was, too, for he lost his confident grin for a moment. But then he found it again. “Well, now, I’ll tell you all about that, Goldilocks, I promise I will. What are you doing in town? I thought I’d find you out on your pa’s ranch. As a matter of fact I was just waitin’ for my horse to have a shoe replaced down at livery yonder, and then I was goin’ to ride out and surprise you.

He dipped his hand into the grease and leaned forward to smear it on the woman’s tortured skin. His hand hovered above her leg. He couldn’t help but remember how jealously she had guarded her ruffled breeches that first day or how painfully ashamed she had been this morning when the hem of her pitsikwina had ridden up on her thighs. If she had any idea that she was lying here naked, he felt sure her face would turn redder than the sunburn had already made it. And if she knew he was about to run his hands over her? He could only guess what her reaction might be. Terror, probably. Accompanied by a good deal of spitting if her past transgressions were an indication. Stupid girl. Grown men had dared less and died for their trouble. Perhaps his brother was right, and she didn’t know who he was. Hunter was well aware of the fear he inspired in the tosi tivo. Most whites recognized him the moment they saw the scar on his cheek and looked into his indigo eyes. A suppressed smile made the corners of his mouth twitch. Perhaps he would be wise not to tell her who he was. As much as he disliked her spitting, the thought of her being obedient and too easily cowed appealed even less. Something about her--he had no idea what--evoked confusing emotions within him. Anger blanketed those emotions, prevented him from having to deal with them. Ah, yes, he liked her much better when she was spitting. Much better. Sick and helpless as she was now, he found himself feeling sorry for her.

He looked as surprised as I was about the kiss and more than a little guilty. "I ..." he started. "I'm sorry. That was wrong. You're my dead roommate's little sister, and I'm here to protect you, not to ..." He trailed off, lost for words. When I finally regained control of my tongue, I said, "It's depraved and you should be ashamed of yourself." I dropped the bottle into the snow and walked determinedly toward him. "Do it again.

Rylan!" Melanie squeals, high-pitched enough to break glass. "I'm, like, so sorry I haven't talked to you all night. Being a hostess is hard work." She dramatically wipes imaginary sweat off her forehead. "Anyway, I finally have some free time. So why don't we go dance, hmm?" Gripping my waist a little too tightly for my taste, she tries to pull me back to the house. I stand strong., jerking Melanie back when I don't move. "No thanks, Melanie." My free arm tightens around Ivy's waist. "I already am dancing with someone." Melanie's sight flickers to Ivy, and for a moment contempt skews her big grin. But it's gone in an instant as Melanie stretches her fake smile to the point she's showing gums and asks, through gritted teeth, "Hi. What's your name?" Ivy can tell there's something off with the girl in front of her, but she still gives her a polite greeting. "Hello. My name is Ivy. How do you do?" Melanie completely ignores the question and turns back to me. "You never told me you invited someone else, Rylan." Melanie's smile goes harsh. "I'm sorry, but unless I give the okay, no one outside of school is invited." She glares at Ivy. "I'll have to ask you to leave." Ivy tilts her head, befuddled at the sudden hostility. "You want me to go?" Melanie rolls her eyes. "Uh, yeah. I just said that." Ivy stares down at her feet, ashamed and no doubt guilty for the wrong reason. She nods. "Okay." She begins to leave but I grab her wrist and pull her back against me. I glare at Melanie. "What if I don't want her to go?" I growl. "Yeah, Melanie!" To my relief, I see Aidan and Nadia wiggle through the crowd. Neither of them look very happy; Nadia's downright fuming. Despite the whole "my liking Ivy" case, she's still there for me. "Don't go telling people they can't be here," Nadia growls, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Who died and made you think you can boss everyone around?" "Last time I checked, this is my party, and therefore I choose who I invite or not," declares Melanie with an obvious edge in her voice. "That's no excuse! The only reason you want her gone is so you can make Rylan your new boy toy, which he doesn't want!" "Oh, like you know him so well?" "I'm his best friend, bitch!" " Excuse me!?" "ENOUGH!" With one word, I bring the argument to an end and all attention back on me. "Nadia's right," I state, glowering at Melanie. "Nadia's always been right. You know one of the reasons I came, other than to show Ivy a good time? It was to tell you to leave me alone, okay? I. Don't. Like. You. So leave me alone!" It was like I announced I farted. Everyone starts whispering with disbelief. No one has ever turned down the advances of Melanie Sweet—until now. It's turning into a night of first for them. Melanie obviously isn't used to this, as her face reddens like a tomato, her beautifully manicured hands clench into fists, and her usually angelic face morphs into a full-blown snarl. How sweet.

Brent felt ashamed that his country, once a leader in human rights, had gone down this sorry path, sacrificing personal rights for an illusion of safety.

Why didn’t you send word sooner?” she asked, her voice accusing. “I tried, but there was no one to take my message, once I had the courage to try. Anyway, there seemed to be no words for my sorrow that you had not heard before.” “Oh.” He was beginning to think he had made a mistake. This was shaping up as a refusal. And after all the persuading he had wasted on his uncle and grandmother. He glanced down at the deer. It was humiliating, but he hadn’t come all this way to stand here dumb, like a chastened twelve-year-old. Without raising his eyes he said, “I missed you so much my soul was sick. My only dreams were of you. On the winter hunt my aim was terrible, like an old man with fading sight. My friends pitied me. I could listen to stories in the longhouse, but I could not tell any afterward because my heart held no memory of them.” He paused, ashamed to admit it. “I tried drinking for a while.” He saw her start slightly, and she said, less harshly, “Me, too.” “What happened between us was my fault.” “No, it wasn’t. I said I wouldn’t marry you. What else could I expect? Your only fault was in leaving without saying good-bye. That made it terrible.” “I’m sorry, Livy. I behaved like a spiteful boy.” “Yes, you did.” She agreed much too easily, he thought. She might be more gracious about it.

I am not sorry, merely ashamed

am not sorry, merely ashamed.

Sorry? For what, Mom?" She looked at me, eyes widening, "For not protecting you," she said. All this time I’d been the one with everything to hide, everything to be ashamed of. It hadn’t even occurred to me that someone else might think to take the blame. "I should have known what was happening. I should have known just by looking at you.

Sorry? For what, Mom? She looked at me, eyes widening, For not protecting you, she said. All this time I’d been the one with everything to hide, everything to be ashamed of. Is hadn’t even occurred to me that someone else might think to take the blame. I should have known what was happening. I should have known just by looking at you

Sitting across from me is my father, and as I look into his worn face it hits me, a truth so powerful I don't know why I've never understood it before. The truth is this: that I am not a good daughter. I am a traitor, a wolf among sheep; there is something different about me and that difference is not good. I want to bellow, to weep into my father's knees and promise never to do it again. But wolf that I am, I am still above lying, and anyway he would sniff the life. We both know that if I ever again find Shawn on the highway, soaked in crimson, I will do exactly what I have just done. I am not sorry, merely ashamed.