Ashford Quotes

Rose Hathaway: "Hey Mason, wipe the drool off your face. If you're going to think about me naked, do it on your own time.” Mason Ashford: "This is my time, Hathaway. I'm leading today's session.” Rose Hathaway: "Oh yeah? Huh. Well, I guess this is a good time to think about me naked, then.” Eddie Castile: "It's always a good a time to think about you naked.

What have we got?" Ashford said. "Short form." "It's fucking weird, sir," Chan said.

This is Detective Ashford Ishikawa. Who am I speaking with?” “My name is Jack Ludefance. I’m a private investigator from Santa Rosaria and I’ve been retained by Cindy Hastings through her lawyer, Mr. Hooks, to investigate her father’s murder. Is there way we can get together to talk?” “Why? What are we going to talk about, Mr. Ludefance?” “As I said, Detective Ishikawa, I’ve been hired to investigate the case. I’ve read the police reports. My hat is off to you. Very thorough work.” “Just doing my job. If you’ve read them, and I won’t ask how you got them, I’ll ask you again, what is there for us to talk about?” “Detective, I’m not trying to do your job and I’m not asking you to do my job. This is of mutual interest to both of us. The sooner we solve the crime the better, yes? Think of it this way. I’m your helper.

This is agony cried Mr Salteena clutching hold of a table my life will be sour grapes and ashes without you.

We need a festival now and again, no matter what situation we're in.

We must go for a day in the country and when surrounded by the gay twittering of the birds and the smell of the cows I will lay my suit at her feet and he waved his arm wildly at the gay thought.

If all that I would want to do was to sit and talk to you...would you listen?

I have carried that ring every moment of the last twelve years. I bought it the day after I first saw you at the ball. The ruby reminded me of the rose gleaming in your black hair." ~Lord Malcom Ashford

My life would be sour grapes and ashes without you

Hey Mason, wipe the drool off your face. If you're going to think about me naked, do it on your own time.” A few snorts and snickers broke the awed silence, and Mason Ashford snapped out of his haze, giving me a lopsided smile. With red hair that stuck up everywhere and a smattering of freckles, he was nice-looking, though not exactly hot. He was also one of the funniest guys I knew. We'd been good friends back in the day. "This is my time, Hathaway. I'm leading today's session.” "Oh yeah?" I retorted. "Huh. Well, I guess this is a good time to think about me naked, then.” "It's always a good a time to think about you naked," added someone nearby, breaking the tension further.

Miss Matty: "You were once in a position to help others, Rachel Ashford. Now others are in a position to help you. Don't waste time feeling embarrassed. But when you are in that privileged position again someday, remember to return the favor.

For the train, like life, must go on until it reaches its destination. You might not always like what you see out of the window, but if you pull down the blind, you will miss the beauty as well as the ugliness.

But its hard to believe Coach Ashford...like he's that hot and a good guy. And bisexual? So a fucking unicorn, then.

Eroan Ilanea, you’re my everything. I don’t need a dragon, I’m all-dragon with you. I’m not going anywhere, because I have everything I need right here. I love you now, I loved you yesterday, and I’ll love you a hundred years from now, until you’re as old as that ancient Order elf in Ashford and I’m so old I’ll frighten all the little elflings with inappropriate war stories.” “You already do that,” Eroan said, but smiling again. Lysander touched his nose to Eroan’s. “I’ll love you until all the other dragons are gone and the world is as it was, with billions of humans and hidden elves and houses and cities, and it’s just you and me, wondering when we got old. I’ll love you until your Ashford tree is as tall as the highest mountain. I’m never going to stop loving you because you’re my heart and my soul and my reason for living.” Eroan sighed against Lysander’s mouth, and it was all he could do not to ravish him right there. “Did you doubt it?” he asked. “Not you,” Eroan said, a touch of heat in his face. “I doubted myself.” “Well, don’t.

If there is a God, she thought, music must be his language.

Could she really do it? Could she really go all that way by herself? Yes, she whispered, of course you can do it: you’re thirty-eight years old and you’re not going to the moon, just to Baghdad. The word sounded the way a shiver felt. At the dinner party in London it had been a shiver of excitement, but now it held a frisson of dread.

...and as she stood on the Ashford platform waiting for the small train to come in, she seemed already separated from the people around her. Tomorrow I shall not be among you anymore; not of you but mysteriously still with you, thought Philippa. As Lady Abbess of Brede had said, "People think we renounce the world. We don't. We renounce its ways but we are still very much in it and it is very much in us.

Robert Ashford possessed one of the key character flaws necessary to a traitor. He thought he was smarter than everyone else. This allowed the overeducated career bureaucrat to sell out his own country, because he believed he knew what was best for his nation and its people.

i see said the duke but my own idear is that these things are as piffle before the wind [from memory...]

Mr Salteena was an elderly man of 42 and was fond of asking people to stay with him

Oh Bernard she sighed fervently I certinly love you madly you are to me like a Heathen god she cried looking at his manly form and handsome flashing face I will indeed marry you.

Imagination was all very well in the daylight, but it was an uncomfortable thing late at night.

The trouble with still, peaceful places was that they allowed all manner of uninvited thoughts to push their way inside your head.

Don’t be afraid of what you don’t know. That kind of fear kills you without you realizing. Like bleeding inside.

William, when shall you confess your love for Miss Bennet and propose to her?" Ashford guffawed loudly. “Yes, Darcy, when will you ask the lady to marry you?” Ignoring his friend, Darcy admitted, “I have already done so, Georgie. Twice.

He admired her for throwing off her aristocratic shackles -- his terms, that -- and making her own way in the world. He didn't realize that the truth was so much more complex, so much less impressive. She had less thrown than been thrown.

Bernard placed one arm tightly round her. When will you marry me Ethel he uttered you must be my wife it has come to that I love you so intensly that if you say no I shall perforce dash my body to the brink of yon muddy river he panted wildly.

That apple,” Ashford said, “didn’t fall close to the tree. In fact, it threw itself off the tree’s branches, rolled down a hill, and straight into the nearest theater box, where it surrounded itself with a variety of strawberries of dubious repute.” Eleanor

Her mother would be appalled, but she wouldn't say anything. She would just telegraph her distress with tightened lips and raised brows. She was good at that. Clemmie's mother's brows were better than sign language, complicated concepts conveyed with the minimum of movement.

Mason whacks me on the back of my head. I give him the ‘what the fuck’ look and he just smiles. “If I didn’t think she loves you, I wouldn’t be sitting here when I have a hot little thing waiting for me at home. Believe me, Ashford, you may be taller and pretty, but you don’t have jack shit on Katelyn.

Give children a chance to use their brains and imaginations, and they will. Put a computer console into their hands, and they won’t.

If only . . . They had to be two of the saddest words in the English language.

Next morning while imbibing his morning tea beneath his pink silken quilt Bernard decided he must marry Ethel with no more delay.

You know what would be awesome? . . . If I could have a machete.

Most of the time, there is no truth, only various levels of interpretation. Fact is a construct we provide to the public.

It’s not easy to believe in anything when your whole world turns upside down. The main thing is to keep believing in yourself.

How is it, she thought, that one can create a character who is more intelligent, more observant, more perceptive than oneself?

Don’t be afraid of what you don’t know. That kind of fear kills you without you realizing.

When everything goes against you and you get to a point when it seems you can’t hang on a minute longer, never, never give up—for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.

Well, this girl, this Ashford or whatever her name was, looked like a hippie. She was wearing a very pretty pink flowered skirt that was full and so long, it touched the tops of her shoes, which I soon realized were not shoes, but sort of hiking boots. Her blouse, loose and lacy, was embroidered with pink flowers, and both her wrists were loaded with silver bangle bracelets. Her hair, which was almost as long as my friend Dawn's and was dirty blonde, was pulled into a big fat braid (which I might add, was not held in place with a rubber band or anything; it sort of trailed to an end). But the amazing thing was that because of her hair was pulled back, you could see her ears and she had three pierced earrings in each ear. They were all silver and all dangly, but none matched.

there is no friend like a sister / In calm or stormy weather; / To cheer one on the tedious way, / To fetch one if one goes astray, / To lift one if one totters down, / To strengthen whilst one stands.’” Bea was much struck by this. “How lovely,

E.M. Ashford: And death shall be no more" comma "death, thou shalt die." Nothing but a breath, a comma separates life from life everlasting. E.M. Ashford: Very simple, really. With the original punctuation restored Death is no longer something to act out on a stage with exclamation marks. It is a comma. A pause. E.M. Ashford: In this way, the uncompromising way one learns something from the poem, wouldn't you say? Life, death, soul, God, past present. Not insuperable barriers. Not semi-colons. Just a comma.

In October 2015 we were lucky enough to have our wedding at Agatha Christie’s beautiful home, Greenway, on the banks of the River Dart in Devon. If there could be such a thing as a patron saint of second marriages, I can think of no better candidate than Agatha Christie.

All of you, every one of you, will pass through a time when you will face despair.’” That much was faithful to the original. “She told us that it was impossible to love without suffering—but if we never loved, we would never know the true meaning of life. Then she said, ‘When everything goes against you and you get to a point when it seems you can’t hang on a minute longer, never, never give up—for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.’” Agatha

Morning, Miss Ashford.” She stopped short. “Marshal Caradon!” She let out a breath. “You startled me. I thought you’d be gone by now.” Why was this woman always trying to get rid of him? “No ma’am.” Smiling, he raised an apologetic brow. “I’m still here.” He walked from the stall, aware of the way she was looking at him—good and long, full up and down—and he couldn’t help but hope she liked what she was seeing, at least a little. He certainly liked what he was looking at. Her long brown hair fell about her shoulders, curly and loose, like it had last night. Her skirt and shirtwaist were simple homespun, yet somehow took on a fancier appearance with her giving them shape. She had a strength about her that was compelling and impossible to miss. Yet if you looked closely enough—if she let you that close—the woman had a vulnerable side too. One she worked to keep hidden behind that wall she kept up. She’d never believe it if he told her, but it was that vulnerability that he found most attractive.

They all went out by a private door and found themselves in a smaller but gorgous room. The Prince tapped on the table and instantly two menials in red tunics appeared. Bring three glasses of champaigne commanded the prince and some ices he added majestikally. The goods appeared as if by majic and the prince drew out a cigar case and passed it round. One grows weary of Court Life he remarked. Ah yes agreed the earl. It upsets me said the prince lapping up his strawberry ice all I want is peace and quiut and a little fun and here I am tied down to this life he said taking off his crown being royal has many painfull drawbacks.

to look at Louisa, stroked her cheek, and was rewarded by a dazzling smile. She had been surprised by how light-skinned the child was. Her features were much more like Eva’s than Bill’s. A small turned-up nose, big hazel eyes, and long dark eyelashes. Her golden-brown hair protruded from under the deep peak of her bonnet in a cascade of ringlets. “Do you think she’d come to me?” Cathy asked. “You can try.” Eva handed her over. “She’s got so heavy, she’s making my arms ache!” She gave a nervous laugh as she took the parcel from Cathy and peered at the postmark. “What’s that, Mam?” David craned his neck and gave a short rasping cough. “Is it sweets?” “No, my love.” Eva and Cathy exchanged glances. “It’s just something Auntie Cathy’s brought from the old house. Are you going to show Mikey your flags?” The boy dug eagerly in his pocket, and before long he and Michael were walking ahead, deep in conversation about the paper flags Eva had bought for them to decorate sand castles. Louisa didn’t cry when Eva handed her over. She seemed fascinated by Cathy’s hair, and as they walked along, Cathy amused her by singing “Old MacDonald.” The beach was only a short walk from the station, and it wasn’t long before the boys were filling their buckets with sand. “I hardly dare open it,” Eva said, fingering the string on the parcel. “I know. I was desperate to open it myself.” Cathy looked at her. “I hope you haven’t built up your hopes, too much, Eva. I’m so worried it might be . . . you know.” Eva nodded quickly. “I thought of that too.” She untied the string, her fingers trembling. The paper fell away to reveal a box with the words “Benson’s Baby Wear” written across it in gold italic script. Eva lifted the lid. Inside was an exquisite pink lace dress with matching bootees and a hat. The label said, “Age 2–3 Years.” Beneath it was a handwritten note:   Dear Eva, This is a little something for our baby girl from her daddy. I don’t know the exact date of her birthday, but I wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten. I hope things are going well for you and your husband. Please thank him from me for what he’s doing for our daughter: he’s a fine man and I don’t blame you for wanting to start over with him. I’m back in the army now, traveling around. I’m due to be posted overseas soon, but I don’t know where yet. I’ll write and let you know when I get my new address. It would be terrific if I could have a photograph of her in this little dress, if your husband doesn’t mind. Best wishes to you all, Bill   For several seconds they sat staring at the piece of paper. When Eva spoke, her voice was tight with emotion. “Cathy, he thinks I chose to stay with Eddie!” Cathy nodded, her mind reeling. “Eddie showed me the letter he sent. Bill wouldn’t have known you were in Wales, would he? He would have assumed you and Eddie had already been reunited—that he’d written with your consent on behalf of you both.” She was afraid to look at Eva. “What are you going to do?” Eva’s face had gone very pale. “I don’t know.” She glanced at David, who was jabbing a Welsh flag into a sand castle. “He said he was going to be posted overseas. Suppose they send him to Britain?” Cathy bit her lip. “It could be anywhere, couldn’t it? It could be the other side of the world.” She could see what was going through Eva’s mind. “You think if he came here, you and he could be together without . . .” Her eyes went to the boys. Eva gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod, as if she was afraid someone might see her. “What about Eddie?” “I don’t know!” The tone of her voice made David look up. She put on a smile, which disappeared the

snigger with ignorant mischief: She likes coffee,

to

wool

It was like wearing clothes without underwear on a hot day—rather daring but very liberating.

perspiration. “I’m so sorry! I couldn’t get here

been foolish to take any risks. And a funeral

You live here in Copper Creek, Miss Ashford?” She dipped a fresh cloth in the water and washed the bullet wound in the patient’s shoulder as best she could. “I do now. We arrived today.” She paused and straightened, the muscles in her back in spasms from bending over the table, and from too much riding on trains and coaches and wagons. She thought of Janie waiting at home, watching for her, and hoped she wasn’t worrying. Robert’s only concern would be that she’d left him overlong with people he didn’t know. He hated making chitchat. She just hoped he wasn’t acting sullen and stone-faced with Vince, Janie, and Emma, like he so often did with her. Hearing a clock ticking somewhere behind her, she rethreaded the needle and focused again on her task. Suturing a man was different from suturing a horse, and very definitely different from sewing saddles. Yet something about the repetition of the act felt similar, which made her wonder if she was doing it right. “We?” Finishing the third suture in the man’s shoulder, she peered up at Caradon, the needle poised between her right thumb and forefinger. “I beg your pardon?” “You said ‘we arrived today.’” Not wanting to talk, she tied off a fourth suture, and a fifth, aware of him watching her. “My brother and I.” “Where did you move from?” She raised her head to find him leaning close, their faces inches apart. “If you don’t mind, Marshal Caradon, could we . . . not talk right now?” The tanned lines at the corners of his eyes tightened ever so slightly. “Not much on that, are you, ma’am? Talking, I mean.” Though his expression denied it, she heard a smile in his voice, yet she held back from responding to it. Outwardly anyway. Someone like Wyatt Caradon was the last person she, or Robert, needed in their lives right now. “I don’t mind talking, Marshal. When I’m not exhausted, famished, and stitching up a gunshot wound.” Catching his grin before she looked away, she finished suturing and bandaging the wound.

Even at a distance, he recognized Emma sprawled headlong in the street, and he broke into a run. The road was empty, so was the boardwalk. He knelt beside her and helped her sit up. “Emma . . . honey, are you okay?” Tears streaked her dusty cheeks. “I-I lost my Aunt Kenny, and”—she hiccupped a sob—“m-my mommy’s gone.” Her face crumpled. “Oh, little one . . . come here.” He gathered her to him, and she came without hesitation. He stood and wiped her tears, and checked for injuries. No broken bones. Nothing but a skinned knee that a little soapy water—and maybe a sugar stick—would fix right up. “Shh . . . it’s okay.” He smoothed the hair on the back of her head, and her little arms came around his neck. A lump rose in his throat. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” Her sobs came harder. “Clara fell down too, Mr. Wyatt.” She drew back and held up the doll. “She’s all dirty. And she stinks.” Wyatt tried his best not to smile. Clara was indeed filthy. And wet. Apparently she’d gone for a swim in the same mud puddle Emma had fallen in. Only it wasn’t just mud, judging from the smell. “Here . . .” He gently chucked her beneath the chin. “Let’s see if we can find your Aunt Kenny. You want to?” The little girl nodded with a hint of uncertainty. “But I got my dress all dirty. She’s gonna be mad.” Knowing there might be some truth to that, he also knew Miss Ashford would be worried sick. “Do you remember where you were with Aunt Kenny before you got lost?” Emma shook her head. “I was talkin’ to my friend, and I looked up . . .” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “And Aunt Kenny was gone.” Wyatt knew better than to think it was McKenna Ashford who had wandered away. “We’ll find her, don’t you worry.” “Clara’s dress is dirty like mine, huh?” She held the doll right in front of his face. Wyatt paused, unable to see it clearly. Easily supporting Emma’s weight, he took Clara and did his best to wipe the dirt and mud from the doll’s dress and its once-yellow strands of hair. His efforts only made a bigger mess, but Emma’s smile said she was grateful. “She likes you.” Emma put a hand to his cheek, then frowned. “Your face is itchy.” Knowing what she meant, he laughed and rubbed his stubbled jaw. He’d bathed and shaved last night in preparation for church this morning, half hoping he might see McKenna and Emma there. But they hadn’t attended. “My face is itchy, huh?” She squeezed his cheek in response, and he made a chomping noise, pretending he was trying to bite her. She pulled her hand back, giggling. Instinctively, he hugged her close and she laid her head on his shoulder. Something deep inside gave way. This is what it would have been like if his precious little Bethany had lived. He rubbed Emma’s back, taking on fresh pain as he glimpsed a fragment of what he’d been denied by the deaths of his wife and infant daughter so many years ago. “Here, you can carry her.” Emma tried to stuff Clara into his outer vest pocket, but the doll wouldn’t fit. Wyatt tucked her inside his vest instead and positioned its scraggly yarn head to poke out over the edge, hoping it would draw a smile. Which it did.

He’d wanted so badly for her to say yes. He hadn’t realized how much until she’d said no. He didn’t blame her. He blamed himself. For making choices in his life that had led him to this. He ran a hand through his hair, then turned back to the telegram. He snatched it and tore open the envelope. The Marshals Office was forever changing his orders, sending him here and there on a whim of a rumor that someone had seen so-and-so here or there, and he was sick and tired of— He stopped. He read the brief message again. They’d given him a lead on Grady Polk, the man he’d been looking for, which was good enough. But it was the rest of the telegram that turned his mood for the better. Finally, after all these years, the Marshals Office had gotten something right. And he might just get another crack at that dinner with McKenna Ashford, and that sweet little Emma, after all.

It had been ages since he’d noticed—really noticed—a woman. Seven years, in fact. But standing by the grave yesterday afternoon, doing his best to listen to what the pastor was saying, his attention had repeatedly been drawn to Miss Ashford. And in the space of a breath, his thoughts had skimmed the years and had landed upon a well-worn page of his life, one dog-eared from handling, tattered around the edges. Sort of like him. It was a page from a chapter he’d been certain would end up defining him forever. That was, until the past few days—when he’d been given reason to rethink otherwise. The funny thing was . . . the object of his interest didn’t seem to have the least interest in him. Or if she did, she was doing an awful good job of hiding it.

She attempted to brush away Emma’s tears, but the child shrank back. Surprised at the reaction, McKenna sought to comfort her with words. “Before your mama passed away, she asked me to take care of you. And I promised her I would. I’m here now, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We’re going to live together in this house you love, that your papa built. And I’ll be here whenever you need anything, okay?” She reached out to hug her, but Emma’s tearful scowl told her the affection wasn’t welcome. Dr. Foster came around to their side of the bed and leaned down to pick up Emma. She went to him willingly, which stung. McKenna tried her best not to show it. Emma was only a child, after all. But when Emma laid her head on Dr. Foster’s shoulder, McKenna couldn’t mask the hurt. He cradled Emma’s head. “Don’t let this upset you, Miss Ashford. I delivered Emma. She’s known me her entire life. Vince and Janie used to have me out for Sunday lunch after church, too, so we’ve gotten to know each other real well. Give it time. She’ll come around to you.” As if on cue, Emma looped her thin arms around his neck and gave McKenna a look that said quite the opposite. A familiar dread clawed its way up the back of McKenna’s throat. “Of course,” she forced out, nodding. “I understand.” And she did. She was a stranger to the girl. But understanding didn’t remove the sting of rejection, and she wondered again if Janie had made the right choice. And if she’d made the right choice in coming West to begin with.

She hurried to the door, cinching her robe, smoothing her hair, and asking God to guide her conversation with the man claiming to be Vince’s brother—whoever he was. She opened the door. “Good morn—” She frowned, unable to explain the tiny spark of irritation, but even greater sparks of joy, she felt. “What are you doing here?” “Good morning, Miss Ashford. It’s nice to see you again too, ma’am.” With a wry smile, Wyatt Caradon tipped his hat and held up the ragged-looking advertisement she’d posted at the mercantile weeks ago. “I’m here in answer to your notice, ma’am. I’m hoping you can still use a ranch hand.

If there was one thing he knew a little about, it was pursuing a person. And though he wasn’t about to give the woman beside him fair warning, Miss Ashford had better be on her guard. Because he planned on doing everything in his power to win not only her trust, but her heart as well.

He moved closer to her, and McKenna buried her hands in her lap. “Just what is it that you pursue, Marshal Caradon?” “You know . . . I wish we could get to the place where you’d stop calling me Marshal Caradon.” He reached over and trailed his fingers along the curve of her wrist and over the back of her hand. McKenna tried hard to resist the shiver working through her, and couldn’t. So she stood. She’d wanted Wyatt Caradon to be different from the other men she’d known. But maybe she wanted that so badly that she was blind to what he was. “I think a certain formality between a man and woman is healthy . . . Marshal Caradon.” He stood with her. “I’d agree with you on that. Unless the man and woman have earned the right to move on to . . . something more. For instance . . .” He braced one arm on the post behind her head and leaned in, and the top step suddenly became even narrower. “Say they’ve done some things like . . . sew up a man together in a doc’s clinic, or shared what it feels like to lose someone precious and then find her again. Or maybe they’ve gone to a nice dinner togeth—Oh wait!” He snapped his fingers. “We haven’t done that yet.” She was tempted to smile, and yet couldn’t. He must’ve sensed her initial reaction because he moved closer. She’d instigated this little meeting and yet now she wished she hadn’t. “Miss Ashford . . .” His voice was almost a whisper. “May I please call you McKenna?” Despite not wanting to, her body reacted to his closeness. And she decided the straightforward approach was best. “Yes, Marshal Caradon, you may.” She put a hand against his chest. “If you’ll tell me why you smell like stale cigars, whiskey, and cheap women.

embroidered Louis XV chair, legs crossed at the

Because love is a risk, isn’t it? Like the guy says, life is dangerous enough, but falling in love is like swimming in a river full of crocodiles.

I don’t know—tall, dark, and handsome and a Hershey bar in his pocket—what more could a girl ask for?

Don’t worry. If people want to think badly of you, they’ll do it anyway—they don’t need an excuse.

The copier spat out the last copy. Ashford

The Pink Tie Principle consists of six steps: Plan Ideas New Knowledge Test Implement Evolve

looked at it a dozen times since it landed on the doormat. An elderly white woman with her arm around a beautiful black girl. The magazine has put us on its front cover with the line: “Mixed Blessings—Rhiannon’s White Family.” The article is to help publicize her new show. I understand that, of course, but I was worried when she told me about it. Afraid of what she would say about me. She knows only the bare bones of what happened because I didn’t want to tell

worry. If people want to think badly of you, they’ll do it anyway—they don’t need an excuse.

place

he

This

she rehearsed what she was going to say. She told herself it was for the best. But she was frightened of the effect her words were going to have. Her mother had been bottling all this up for more than half her life. How was she going to react when she found out Louisa had gone searching for Cathy behind her back? That her daughter knew secrets she thought were dead and buried? “Hello, love.” Eva looked up from her knitting as

the

wouldn’t allow herself to believe

Childhood is over so quickly nowadays; just slow things down and hold on to it for as long as you can!

There is nothing so precious as autumn sunshine.

As long as the mother is happy, the household will be happy. The mother truly is the heart and soul of a family.

I've seen child care trends come and go, but the only thing any mother need really do is to give her whole heart over to love. If she does this, the rewards will be endless.

Also, and this is something I feel passionate about, I simply never call children "kids." Baby goats are kids, not children! I know it may seem silly to some, but it's something I feel most strongly. If we respect little people, then they in turn will grow up to respect others.

When I heard that, I suddenly grasped what it was all about: forgiving is about freedom. It’s not just about pardoning the wrongdoer—it’s about releasing yourself from the power of what they did to you. Forgiving someone sets you free.

It was three weeks later that the letter from Rose’s publisher arrived. He had written to say that he loved the idea of a book about herbal remedies for humans. The letter contained an advance that would tide her over until well after the baby was due. “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?” She passed the check to Lola, who passed it on to Nieve. They beamed at each other as the child read the amount out loud. “What’s that funny squiggle in front of the number?” She thrust the check up to Rose’s face. “It’s a pound sign—in England we have pounds instead of pesetas.” “How much is it—in pesetas?” When Rose told her, Nieve gasped. “Just for writing a book?” “It’s going to take me quite a long time.” Rose smiled. “And when she’s finished it, she’s going to need a rest.” Lola scooped Nieve up and sat her on her lap. “Why?” “Because next year—in the spring—Auntie Rose is going to have a baby.” Nieve turned to Rose, her mouth open. “Will it be a girl or a boy?” Rose laughed. “I don’t know! We’ll have to wait and see.” “Can I choose its name?” “Well, if it’s a girl, yes, you can—but if it’s a boy . . .” Rose glanced at Lola. “I already have a boy’s name.” “I think I can guess,” Lola said. “Nathan.

Steals into my garden without warning. I am sitting in the camellia grove above the estuary, waiting for the sunset, watching a pair of oystercatchers at the water’s edge, and trying to work out who is going to murder Major Palgrave. The lapping of the tide lulls me to sleep, so I don’t see the boat heading for the mooring. “Mrs. Christie?” His shadow falls across my face. “Who is it?” My eyes snap open.

Marcus Ashford.

It’s a good thing that I’m yours and a great thing that you’re not going to share me.” “It is?”I cried out as he ground into me, filling me deep, bruising inside and out. “Definitely.”He picked a threatening pace, driving into me over and over again. “Because if I’m yours and you’re mine, then it means you just handed over your freedom, Gemma Ashford.” I cried out as he fucked me harder. “You’re going to marry me. You’re going to worship me every fucking day for the rest of your life. You’ll be my friend, my lover... my wife. You’ll put up with my flaws and accept that I’ll never be perfect. You’ll love me until your dying day.

Ffsffdsfsdfs

Individuals can be divided and conquered, but symbols, symbols endure forever.

Like the feather she’d seen floating along the river the day he left her, he’d disappeared from view, entered choppy water, and been pulled under. But he had emerged, bedraggled but intact, farther downstream. There would be more turbulence ahead—that much was certain. But now they would face it together.

It’s what defines a person, the way they deal with life’s unfairness.

For the train, like life, must go on until it reaches its destination. You might not always like what you see out of the window, but if you pull down the blind, you will miss the beauty as well as the ugliness. My finger

the riches of the mind do not rust.

America is a nation of displaced people. How can you close a border that’s been open to the whole world for hundreds of years?

believe in a God who, twice a day, washes all the sands on all the shores of all the world. He makes every mark disappear—from the gaping hole dug by a spade to the footprints left by a gull.

when we suffer, he suffers with us. He didn’t create the evil that was done here. He gave us free will—the choice to love and nurture or to hate and destroy one another. Mankind has been getting it wrong since the dawn of time.

it was all about: forgiving is about freedom. It’s not just about pardoning the wrongdoer—it’s about releasing yourself from the power of what they did to you. Forgiving someone sets you free.

forgiving is about freedom. It’s not just about pardoning the wrongdoer—it’s about releasing yourself from the power of what they did to you. Forgiving someone sets you free.

It’s a strange word, forgiveness,” he said. “I never really understood it until I studied Greek at the seminary. The Greek word in the Bible—aphiemi—means ‘to set free.’ When I heard that, I suddenly grasped what it was all about: forgiving is about freedom. It’s not just about pardoning the wrongdoer—it’s about releasing yourself from the power of what they did to you. Forgiving someone sets you free.

The House at Mermaid’s Cove.

were

As she gazed across the water, she saw a feather, white and perfect, drifting past her. Her eyes followed it as it moved gently with the current. It looked so delicate, so fragile—and yet it glided down the river with all the strength and balance of a boat. It was not struggling to escape. It was simply allowing itself to go where time and the water would take it.