Brandy Drink Quotes

I want to meet a woman named Sherry who only drinks brandy, and a woman named Brandy who only drinks sherry. Then I’ll offer each one of them one magical night of sex with me, in the form of two of my clones.

The most sensible thing to do to people you hate is to drink their brandy.

Miserable people love to make other people miserable. I don't hate them, I just feel sorry for them.

I'm not everyone's cup of tea, but that's the great part: I don't have to be.

I began drinking because the thought that I was drinking gave me a kind of identity: each time I poured myself a brandy in the deserted afternoon I could say to myself 'I am a woman who drinks.

What are you doing?” Celaena lifted another piece of paper. “If His Pirateness can’t be bothered to clean for us, then I don’t see why I can’t have a look.” “He’ll be here any second,” Sam hissed. She picked up a flattened map, examining the dots and markings along the coastline of their continent. Something small and round gleamed beneath the map, and she slipped it into her pocket before Sam could notice. “Oh, hush,” she said, opening the hutch on the wall adjacent to the desk. “With these creaky floors, we’ll hear him a mile off.” The hutch was crammed with rolled scrolls, quills, the odd coin, and some very old, very expensive-looking brandy. She pulled out a bottle, swirling the amber liquid in the sunlight streaming through the tiny porthole window. “Care for a drink?

Lo!" cried the demon. "I am here! What dost thou seek of me? Why dost thou disturb my repose? Smite me no more with that dread rod!" He looked at Cabal. "Where's your dread rod?" "I left it at home," replied Cabal. "Didn't think I really needed it." "You can't summon me without a dread rod!" said Lucifuge, appalled. "You're here, aren't you?" "Well, yes, but under false pretences. You haven't got a goatskin or two vervain crowns or two candles of virgin wax made by a virgin girl and duly blessed. Have you got the stone called Ematille?" "I don't even know what Ematille is." Neither did the demon. He dropped the subject and moved on. "Four nails from the coffin of a dead child?" "Don't be fatuous." "Half a bottle of brandy?" "I don't drink brandy." "It's not for you." "I have a hip flask," said Cabal, and threw it to him. The demon caught it and took a dram. "Cheers," said Lucifuge, and threw it back. They regarded each other for a long moment. "This really is a shambles," the demon added finally. "What did you summon me for, anyway?

Claret is the liquor for boys, port for men; but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.

At the end of the day, we need to do whatever it takes to move on. Don’t be ashamed of any decision you make, and stay strong.

Claret is the liquor for boys; port for men; but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.

He always smelled like warm wood and brandy, even when he hadn't had a drop of drink. Funny how he managed that. Funny how his smell was in her bed. Henry's eyelids fluttered open. Funny how he was in her bed.

Sad people are too sad to do anything but drink brandy and sleep all day.

He looked down at her, finding it difficult to resist the urge to climb over her prone body and kiss her senseless. “Would you mind telling me why you were drinking pear brandy in the middle of the afternoon?” “Because I couldn’ open the sherry.” His lips twitched. -Marcus & Lillian

I’m sorry your evening has been spoilt; I hope Juffrouw van Doorn won’t be too upset.’ ‘She will be livid,’ he observed with calm. ‘Drink your brandy, it will prevent you catching cold.’ He leant over Bertie for a moment and listened to the dog’s snores. ‘He’ll be all right now.’ Becky sipped her brandy, wrinkling her nose. ‘This tastes very peculiar.’ Not a muscle of the Baron’s face moved. He would hardly have described his best Napoleon brandy as peculiar.

I never turn down a drink. Among friend's it's always appropriate. A man is only a man as they say but brandy is still brandy. You'll find that in the Talmud too.

Sometimes you need to lose yourself to truly find yourself again. But at the end of the day, you have to know when to wake the fuck up and get on with your life.

I had spent a year and a half in a total fucking tailspin, and guess what? I needed it. My life had shattered around me, and I needed to fall off deep end for a while.

It doesn't matter who you are, what you do, or where you live, everybody struggles from time to time. It's not the struggles that define you; it's how you overcome them.

When I'm drunk with feeling and nature is drinking from my lips and we reflect each other in our atmospheres, then my words come effortlessly and my fingers go into labor...day or night.

The moral of the story couldn’t be clearer: you already know if your partner is fucking around behind your back, you just need to decide if you’re done being a doormat. You need to wake up one morning and decide that those rose-colored glasses are so last fucking season.

Martha: Fix the kids a drink, George. What would you like to drink, kid– kid. Nick: Honey? what would you like? Honey: Ohhhh, I don't know, dear, a little brandy maybe. "Never mix, never worry!" George: Brandy? Just brandy? Simple, simple… [George turns to Nick.] George: What about you, em… em… em… Nick: Bourbon on the rocks, if you don't mind. George: Mind? I don't mind. I don't think I mind. Martha? Rubbing alcohol for you? Martha: Sure! "Never mix, never worry!

Friends for life. These are the men and women that I cherish. Come rain or storm, we will always be there for one another. Maybe that’s the silver lining after having to deal with shitty people: you can truly appreciate the good ones.

lavender and brandy under your tongue for an entire weekend. blessed. joy as a watermelon seed i keep swallowing on purpose.

No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men: but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.

He kept telling me his affair was over, but I kept catching him in lies. He wouldn’t shake this woman, and I simply could not trust him anymore.

He’s hidden behind lies and half-truths his entire life, so anytime he’s faced with brutal honesty, he runs. It’s just his nature.

No matter how old you are, there’s no cozier feeling than to have your mom take care of you.

Overindulgence can be a good thing—especially when it teaches you what you don’t need.

This torture inflicted on her by my great-aunt, the sight of my grandmother's vain entreaties, of her feeble attempts, doomed in advance, to remove the liqueur-glass from my grandfather's hands -- all these were things of the sort to which, in later years, one can grow so accustomed as to smile at them and to take the persecutor's side resolutely and cheerfully enough to persuade oneself that it is not really persecution; but in those days they filled me with such horror that I longed to strike my great-aunt. And yet, as soon as I heard her "Bathilde! Come in and stop your husband drinking brandy," in my cowardice I became at once a man, and did what all we grown men do when face to face with suffering and injustice: I preferred not to see them.

...if you discover your partner is cheating, drink like it’s your last party, blame everyone else for your problems, let “binging” be your new favorite hobby, and, by all means, FUCKING PANIC.

…she sipped her drink and tried not to stare at Dalgliesh. But he was murderously handsome, dark as a gypsy, with sleepy, bedroom eyes, his hunter’s gaze shuttered now that he was lounging relaxed in his chair, his brandy glass resting on his chest. His legs were stretched out before him…

In the week I promised myself I should naturally read, for to the habitual reader reading is a drug of which he is the slave; deprive him of printed matter and he grows nervous, moody, and restless; then, like the alcoholic bereft of brandy who will drink shellac or methylated spirit, he will make do with the advertisements of a paper five years old; he will make do with a telephone directory.

Later he wrote to Lodge: "I don't grudge the broken arm a bit...I'm always ready to pay the piper when I've had a good dance; and every now and then I like to drink the wine of life with brandy in it.

Sure, occasionally a certain sappy song or romantic movie would come on, and you’d wonder what he or she was up to, but there was no way to know. Of course, you could always pick up the phone (and more recently, text or e-mail), but that would require that person’s knowing you were thinking of him or her. Where’s the fun in that? You never want them to know you’re thinking of them, so you refrain. Before long the memories start to fade. One day, you realize you can’t quite remember how she smelled or the exact color of his eyes. Eventually, without ever knowing it, you just forget that person altogether. You replace old memories with new ones, and life goes on. It was the clean break you needed to move forward.

At the end of the day, we need to do whatever it takes to move on. Don’t be ashamed of any decision you make, and stay strong. Much like the pain of recovering from vaginal rejuvenation, this, too, shall pass.

The most surprising thing about breaking up is that you already know how to do it. Everything you need to know, you learned in kindergarten. Yours should always be better than his (especially when it comes to lawyers).

Is she pleasing to the eye?" Gabriel went to an inset sideboard to pour himself a brandy. "She's bloody ravishing," he muttered. Looking more and more interested, his father asked, "What is the problem with her, then?" "She's a perfect little savage. Constitutionally incapable of guarding her tongue. Not to mention peculiar: She goes to balls but never dances, only sits in the corner. Two of the fellows I went drinking with last night said they'd asked her to waltz on previous occasions. She told one of them that a carriage horse had recently stepped on her foot, and she told the other that the butler had accidentally slammed her leg in the door." Gabriel took a swallow of brandy before finishing grimly, "No wonder she's a wallflower." Sebastian, who had begun to laugh, seemed struck by that last comment. "Ahhh," he said softly. "That explains it." He was silent for a moment, lost in some distant, pleasurable memory. "Dangerous creatures, wallflowers. Approach them with the utmost caution. They sit quietly in corners, appearing abandoned and forlorn, when in truth they're sirens who lure men to their downfall. You won't even notice the moment she steals the heart right out of your body- and then it's hers for good. A wallflower never gives your heart back." "Are you finished amusing yourself?" Gabriel asked, impatient with his father's flight of fancy. "Because I have actual problems to deal with." Still smiling, Sebastian reached for some chalk and applied it to the tip of his cue stick. "Forgive me. The word makes me a bit sentimental.

How many times have you stopped midsentence to ask a waiter to take a photo and then spent the next five minutes fucking with filters to post it on Instagram? It’s as if we have this strange obsession with proving to the world that we are, in fact, cool. Look, I’m totally guilty of this, and I’m not sure I ever intend to stop. It’s just the culture we live in now, but it’s important to keep things in perspective.

The staff did have a little difficulty adjusting to Mr. Churchill’s way of living. The first thing in the morning, he declined the customary orange juice and called for a drink of Scotch. His staff, a large entourage of aides and a valet, followed suit. The butlers wore a path in the carpet carrying trays laden with brandy to his suite. We got used to his “jumpsuit,” the extraordinary one-piece uniform he wore every day, but the servants never quite got over seeing him naked in his room when they’d go up to serve brandy. It was the jumpsuit or nothing. In his room, Mr. Churchill wore no clothes at all most of the time during the day.

You must be the Italian cow now sharing my last name." He looked her up and down with disgust. As I stood, Mel glared, telling me to back the fuck down or else. She moved from behind the desk and stood directly in front of his face, causing his bodyguards to step forward as well. "Old man, you're in my house. That makes you a fucking guest. I don't owe you shit and you will respect me if you want my respect. My name is Melody. Mrs. Callahan if it suits you, but..." She leaned in until their noses were almost touching. She was shorter, but the black heels helped. "If you even call me a cow again I will kill you painfully slow. I don't care how many motherfucking body guards you have." Two of his bodyguards drew their guns and the last had a knife hidden in his sleeve. Shit. I thought as she pulled her gun. Declan and Neal were already backing her up. My father just rolled his eyes and took my mother into the corner, all while drinking his brandy. This was ridiculous. "Lower your weapons," Grandfather said as he glared into her eyes. "The Italian cow..." The moment he said it, three bullets went flying into them. One in the chest, one in the wrist and the other the knee; they all went down like cards. You don't out gun Mel. "What the fuck? Where did she pull the gun out from?" Neal whispered. "I swear, she's a motherfucking ninja.

Every morning Mrs Eglantine sat at the round bamboo bar of the New Pacific Hotel and drank her breakfast. This consisted of two quick large brandies, followed by several slower ones. By noon breakfast had become lunch and by two o'clock the pouches under and above Mrs Eglantine's bleared blue eyes began to look like large puffed pink prawns.

He’d had a full measure of good bourbon and a fine dinner and probably some excellent brandy. It had dulled his mind slightly, and he was aware of that dullness and was consequently more careful and more suspicious than he would have been sober. He refused a drink. He lowered himself into a comfortable chair and took his time lighting his pipe.

Derzhavin discovered that the Jewish schnapps distillers were exploiting the alcoholism of the peasants: "After I had discovered that the Jews while seeking profits, use the lure of drink to beguile grain from the peasants, convert it into brandy and thereby cause a famine, I commanded that they should close their distilleries in the village of Liosno.

It is not much of an exaggeration to claim that the very process that gives us the raw ingredients for brandy and beer is the same one that sustains life on the planet.

When life hands you lemons, grab the nearest bottle of vodka and make yourself a cocktail.

And finally, always remember that the other person started it.

I had stopped doing anything for myself. I no longer felt like an individual because for thirteen years, I was one-half of a “we.

Given everything he’d put me through, he was seriously lucky that’s all I took a knife to. Don’t think I didn’t fantasize about going all Lorena Bobbitt on his ass.

It’s not the struggles that define you; it’s how you overcome them.

He was like brandy I wanted to drink on a clear summer day, a golden afternoon I wanted to get lost in, an evening over cardboard pizza and lemon pie that was never the same twice.

I gather from Audrius that that concoction contains ten different ingredients. In addition to vodka, rum, brandy, and grenadine, it boasts an extraction of rose, a dash of bitters, and a melted lollipop. But a cocktail is not meant to be a mélange. It is not a potpourri or an Easter parade. At its best, a cocktail should be crisp, elegant, sincere—and limited to two ingredients.” “Just two?” “Yes. But they must be two ingredients that complement each other; that laugh at each other’s jokes and make allowances for each other’s faults; and that never shout over each other in conversation. Like gin and tonic,” he said, pointing to his drink. “Or bourbon and water . . . Or whiskey and soda . . .” Shaking his head, he raised his glass and drank from it. “Excuse me for expounding.

Messengers wait outside the door, to carry urgent orders for release. It is difficult, when the pen skips over a name, to associate it with the corpse it might belong to, tomorrow or the day after that. There is no sense of evil in the room, just tiredness and the aftertaste of petty squabbling. Camille drinks quite a lot of Fabre’s brandy. Towards daybreak, a kind of dismal camaraderie sets in.

You do not have to be an expert in the field to know that a man who cannot keep the ledger, oversee the crops, and is more concerned with drinking brandy than working is useless and must be replaced.

It sounds bizarre, but I sort of understood why some people would cause physical harm to themselves when going through emotionally difficult times. Physical pain can make you forget just about everything else.

So, after three days of incessant brandy-drinking, he had burned out the youth from his blood, he had achieved this kindled state of oneness with all the world, which is the end of youth's most passionate desire.

Leah tilted her chin and smiled. “I thought we disliked each other.” “Oh, we do,” he said, taking another sip. “I detest you quite thoroughly. Especially when you smile.” Her lips flattened. “Do you?” He gestured toward her with the drink, the liquid sloshing out the side to drip over his thigh. Leah’s gaze followed the brandy’s path where it darkened on his trousers, then jerked upward again as he spoke. “You’re too bloody happy. It’s very offensive.

The Brandy Diet is one of my personal favourites – you don’t lose any weight, but if you drink enough of the stuff then you neither care what you look like nor what people think of you. Also, if you’re very lucky, you can lose days.

My mother taught me three simple truths in this world that everyone should recognize: everybody has been dumped; everybody has a bad day; and everybody hates anal (unless you're gay... even then it's a maybe). These are truths, people.

I’m not sure how the ponies happened, though I have an inkling: “Can I get you anything?” I’ll say, getting up from a dinner table, “Coffee, tea, a pony?” People rarely laugh at this, especially if they’ve heard it before. “This party’s ‘sposed to be fun,” a friend will say. “Really? Will there be pony rides?” It’s a nervous tic and a cheap joke, cheapened further by the frequency with which I use it. For that same reason, it’s hard to weed it out of my speech – most of the time I don’t even realize I’m saying it. There are little elements in a person’s life, minor fibers that become unintentionally tangled with your personality. Sometimes it’s a patent phrase, sometimes it’s a perfume, sometimes it’s a wristwatch. For me, it is the constant referencing of ponies. I don’t even like ponies. If I made one of my throwaway equine requests and someone produced an actual pony, Juan-Valdez-style, I would run very fast in the other direction. During a few summers at camp, I rode a chronically dehydrated pony named Brandy who would jolt down without notice to lick the grass outside the corral and I would careen forward, my helmet tipping to cover my eyes. I do, however, like ponies on the abstract. Who doesn’t? It’s like those movies with the animated insects. Sure, the baby cockroach seems cute with CGI eyelashes, but how would you feel about fifty of her real-life counterparts living in your oven? And that’s precisely the manner in which the ponies clomped their way into my regular speech: abstractly. “I have something for you,” a guy will say on our first date. “Is it a pony?” No. It’s usually a movie ticket or his cell phone number. But on our second date, if I ask again, I’m pretty sure I’m getting a pony. And thus the Pony drawer came to be. It’s uncomfortable to admit, but almost every guy I have ever dated has unwittingly made a contribution to the stable. The retro pony from the ‘50s was from the most thoughtful guy I have ever known. The one with the glitter horseshoes was from a boy who would later turn out to be straight somehow, not gay. The one with the rainbow haunches was from a librarian, whom I broke up with because I felt the chemistry just wasn’t right, and the one with the price tag stuck on the back was given to me by a narcissist who was so impressed with his gift he forgot to remover the sticker. Each one of them marks the beginning of a new relationship. I don’t mean to hint. It’s not a hint, actually, it’s a flat out demand: I. Want. A. Pony. I think what happens is that young relationships are eager to build up a romantic repertoire of private jokes, especially in the city where there’s not always a great “how we met” story behind every great love affair. People meet at bars, through mutual friends, on dating sites, or because they work in the same industry. Just once a coworker of mine, asked me out between two stops on the N train. We were holding the same pole and he said, “I know this sounds completely insane, bean sprout, but would you like to go to a very public place with me and have a drink or something...?” I looked into his seemingly non-psycho-killing, rent-paying, Sunday Times-subscribing eyes and said, “Sure, why the hell not?” He never bought me a pony. But he didn’t have to, if you know what I mean.

I ran out of brandy and was trying to decide whether I might walk downstairs to look for more without breaking my neck, or whether I’d had enough not to feel guilty about drinking the whole bottle of laudanum instead. And then John came in.

But what if I do live? What if we win? What then?" He parted the bottle's mouth from his. "What then? Ah." He smiled beatifically. "Then the world goes on, my friend. Children run down muddy streets. Dogs bark at passing carts. Friends sit and drink brandy together." "Doesn't sound much different from what we have," I observed sourly. "To go through all this and make no difference at all." "Yes." He agreed beatifically. His eyes filled with tears. "Not much different from the wondrous and amazing world we have now. Boys falling in love with girls that aren't right for them. Wolves hunting on the snowy plains. And time. Endless time unwinding for all of us. And the dragons, of course. Dragons sliding across the sky like beautiful jewelled ships.

There shall be brandy!" Sebastian stood "And we shall even drink it, although Robert will stop after two glasses because he always does." "There will be food!" Oliver declaimed, mirroring Sebastian's stance. "And we shan't drink that, because then we would choke

Scott stared at her mouth, just stared like he was hypnotized, paralyzed, like that crimson O was the answer to all of life’s problems, or maybe just his prayers. I kicked his shin to break the spell, which worked; he blinked, then ate the bite himself as if he’d never even offered it to anyone at all. I looked frankly at Carmel; her expression was innocently amused. There are women whose whole selves are engaged in being a public commodity, and Carmel was one of these. Every gesture she made, every syllable she uttered, the tinkle of her laughter, the way her dress’s fabric draped over her breasts, all of it was self-conscious and deliberate, designed to elicit admiration in women, desire in men. This isn’t to say I held any of that against her. Not a bit. I liked her, in fact. The way I saw it, she was a kind of living work of art, and funny and thoughtful besides. Was it her fault if she, as had happened to me, sometimes provoked the basest feelings in a man? Scott and Fred made short work of that second bottle of brandy while Carmel’s and my glasses still held our initial pour. I’d found that drinking very much of any kind of alcohol still did bad things to my stomach. Carmel might have found that it did bad things to her self-preservation; I know that if I looked like her, I’d never let down my guard.

But after making love to him through tears and anger, I realized he was a perfect stranger to me now. How could I want something back that never existed? I couldn’t unknow everything I had discovered, and I didn’t want to. I liked the woman I was becoming—slowly, but surely—and I was interested in where this new road would take me.

I think social media is the enemy of anyone going through a split. Technology is no longer just how we connect with each other, it’s how we disconnect with each other. You used to be able to break up with someone (a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, or friend), and he or she virtually disappeared from your life. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?

Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive outside itself-it only requires opportunity. You do not suppose Dempster had any motive for drinking beyond the craving for drink; the presence of brandy was the only necessary condition. And an unloving, tyrannous, brutal man needs no motive to prompt his cruelty; he needs only the perpetual presence of a woman he can call his own. A whole park full of tame or timid-eyed animals to torment at his will would not serve him so well to glut his lust of torture; they could not feel as one woman does; they could not throw out the keen retort which whets the edge of hatred. [...] poor Janet's soul was kept like a vexed sea, tossed by a new storm before the old waves have fallen.

She brought the brandy bottle and a glass to the table. She had read books in which characters had sat down with a fifth of booze and a heavy load of despair, determined to use the former to wash away the latter. Sometimes it worked for them, so maybe it would work for her. If brandy could improve her state of mind even marginally, she was prepared to drink the whole damn bottle.

And some children, like Helena, who grow up in privilege, never wanting for anything, surrounded by people who don’t live in the real world, people who drink their brandy every night and gossip about the sons and daughters of this house and that house… sometimes they only want to see the real world, to live in it and make a difference. To have genuine human contact, to see their life mean something. Ahead

Angels’ Share: In storage, a small amount of alcohol escapes the barrel through evaporation. Distillers call this lost alcohol the angels’ share. Whiskey and brandy makers estimate that the angels get about 2 percent of the alcohol in a barrel each year, although that can vary depending on humidity and temperature. Fortunately, they can afford to lose some, as most spirits are aged at a higher proof than the final bottling.

You love Robert, not me. You don’t love Lord Stuffy, so I tried to be like Robert.” The sweet idiot! She felt like weeping again. She began to protest, but he cut her off. “I don’t drink and I don’t gamble and I don’t have a mistress. I’m dull. You told me so, the first time we met. So I tried to change.” He frowned. “Not the mistress. I’ll never do that.” “Good,” she whispered. “I’m trying to be like Robert, but I’m no good at it. I drank wine. And brandy, lots of it. I didn’t like it and it made me sick. I played hazard and I lost.” He looked momentarily cheerful and her heart sank. “But I didn’t like that either. If I was a real man like Mr. Fox, or Robert, I’d have lost thousands.” The sadder he looked, the more her heart ached, a happy ache. “I failed you, Caro. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll always be Lord Stuffy,” he said, and closed his tortured, bloodshot eyes.

in Colville’s recollection, ‘although he was never inebriated (or, indeed, drank between meals anything but soda-water flavoured with whisky), he would still consume, without the smallest ill-effect, enough champagne and brandy at luncheon or dinner to incapacitate any lesser man’.22 ‘When I was younger I made it a rule never to take strong drink before lunch,’ Churchill told the King in January 1952. ‘It is now my rule never to do so before breakfast.

Daemon picked her up, took her into the bathroom, and filled the tub with hot water. She’d been unnaturally quiet all day, and he’d feared she was becoming ill. Now he feared she was in shock. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes, and she didn’t seem to know where she was. She struggled when he tried to lift the nightgown over her head. “No,” she said feebly as she attempted to hold the garment down. “I know what girls look like,” Daemon snapped as he pulled off the nightgown and lifted her into the tub. “Sit there.” He pointed a finger at her. She stopped trying to get out of the tub. Daemon went into the bedroom and got the brandy and glass he kept tucked in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Returning to the bathroom, he sat on the edge of the tub, poured a healthy dose into the glass, and handed it to her. “Drink this.” He watched her take a small taste and grimace before he put the bottle to his own lips and took a long swallow. “Drink it,” he said angrily when she tried to hand him the glass. “I don’t like it.” It was the first time he’d ever heard her sound so young and vulnerable. He wanted to scream. “What—” He knew. Suddenly, all too clearly, he knew. The mud, the dirge, her hands cut up from digging in the hard ground, the dirt beneath her fingernails. He knew. Daemon took another long swallow of brandy. “Who?” “Rose,” Jaenelle replied in a hollow voice. “He killed my friend Rose.

There is a visitor, Countess.” “A visitor?” Mother looks toward the rain-drenched windows. “Who would be out in this mess? Has their car given out?” “No, My Lady. The young woman says her name is Nancy Herald. She apologized for not making an appointment and provided her card. It seems to be a business proposition.” My mother makes a sweeping motion with the back of her hand. “I have no interest or time for business propositions. Send her on her way, please.” Stanhope places a business card on the table, bows, and leaves the room. Penny picks it up as she sips her drink, looks it over—and then spits her brandy all over the carpet. “Penelope!” mother yells. My sister stands up, waving the card over her head like Veruca Salt after she got her hands on the golden ticket to the chocolate factory. “Stanhope!” she screams. “Don’t let her leave! She a television producer!” Penny turns to me and in a quieter but urgent voice says, “She’s a television producer.” As if I didn’t hear her the first time. Then she sprints from the room. Or . . . tries to. Halfway to the door, her heel catches on the carpet and she falls flat on her face with an “Ooof.” “Are you all right, Pen?” She pulls herself up, waving her hands. “I’m fine! Or I will be, as long as she doesn’t leave!” The second try’s the charm, and Penelope scurries out of the room as fast as her four-inch heels will take her. My mother shakes her head at my sister’s retreating form. “Too much sugar, that one.” Then she drains her glass.

There is no doubt that Earth Central, the planetary and sector AIs, and even some ship and drone AIs are capable, without acquiring additional processing space, of setting up synergetic systems within themselves that result in an exponential climb in intelligence (mathematically defined as climbing beyond all known scales within minutes). So why not? Ask then why a human, capable of learning verbatim the complete works of Shakespeare, instead drinks a bottle of brandy, then giggles a lot and falls over.

I work at home, where there is indeed a bar-room, and can suit myself. But I don't. At about half past midday, a decent slug of Mr. Walker's amber restorative, cut with Perrier water (an ideal delivery system) and no ice. At luncheon, perhaps half a bottle of red wine: not always more but never less. Then back to the desk, and ready to repeat the treatment at the evening meal. No "after dinner drinks"- ​most especially nothing sweet and never, ever any brandy. "Nightcaps" depend on how well the day went...

Arthur saw a closed-mindedness that was, he felt, self-propagating and innately limiting. More broadly, he believed these qualities explained precisely how an intelligent guy like Rob would always make life harder on himself than it needed to be. Here he was, drinking brandy in a prestigious society in a top-ranked school, the beneficiary of so many gifts both natural and bestowed, surrounded by bright and open-minded classmates, and yet still he remained mired in, even paralyzed by, what was effectively his own racism.

We so often seek what we’re deprived of in childhood. Sheltered children become reckless. Starving children become ambitious. And some children, like Helena, who grow up in privilege, never wanting for anything, surrounded by people who don’t live in the real world, people who drink their brandy every night and gossip about the sons and daughters of this house and that house… sometimes they only want to see the real world, to live in it and make a difference. To have genuine human contact, to see their life mean something.

He knew everything. He knew at least a thousand Hungarian folk songs, all the words and tunes, he could handle Gypsies, give them instructions and keep them in order, check their familiarity with the flicker of an eyelid, then win their affection with a lordly, condescending, and yet fraternal-playful sidelong glance, he could call 'acsi' perfectly, shout at the first violin when he didn't strike up Csendesen, csak csendesen quietly enough and the cimbalonist when the padded sticks didn't make the steel strings thunder and rumble sufficiently in Hullamzo Balaton, he could kiss the viola player's pock-marked face, give the double bass a kick, break glasses and mirrors, drink wine, beer and marc brandy for three days on end out of tumblers, smack his lips at the site of cabbage soup and cold pork stew, take ages inspecting his cards (with relish, one eye closed), dance a quick csardas for a whole half-hour, urging and driving himself on to stamp and shout and toss his partner high in the air and catch her, light as a feather, with one arm: so, as I said, he could do everything that raises Man from his animal condition and makes him truly Man.

Why does it feel as if I've barely closed my eyes?" "Possibly because you just have, my insatiable young minx. I should have remembered what effect Archibald's company had on your tolerance for wine." "It was not the wine that kept me awake, sir. It was the brandy." He glanced up from tucking his shirttails into his breeches and grinned wolfishly. "Perhaps next time we should try drinking it out of glasses." "Perverted and lustful,"she grumbled crossly. "That's what you are. And far too knowledgeable of things decent men and women would never dream of going in their most wicked fantasies." "Is that a complaint?

In the center of the room Elizabeth stood stock still, clasping and unclasping her hands, watching the handle turn, unable to breathe with the tension. The door swung open, admitting a blast of frigid air and a tall, broad-shouldered man who glanced at Elizabeth in the firelight and said, “Henry, it wasn’t necess-“ Ian broke off, the door still open, staring at what he momentarily thought was a hallucination, a trick of the flames dancing in the fireplace, and then he realized the vision was real: Elizabeth was standing perfectly still, looking at him. And lying at her feet was a young Labrador retriever. Trying to buy time, Ian turned around and carefully closed the door as if latching it with precision were the most paramount thing in his life, while he tried to decide whether she’d looked happy or not to see him. In the long lonely nights without her, he’d rehearsed dozens of speeches to her-from stinging lectures to gentle discussions. Now, when the time was finally here, he could not remember one damn word of any of them. Left with no other choice, he took the only neutral course available. Turning back to the room, Ian looked at the Labrador. “Who’s this?” he asked, walking forward and crouching down to pet the dog, because he didn’t know what the hell to say to his wife. Elizabeth swallowed her disappointment as he ignored her and stroked the Labrador’s glossy black head. “I-I call her Shadow.” The sound of her voice was so sweet, Ian almost pulled her down into his arms. Instead, he glanced at her, thinking it encouraging she’d named her dog after his. “Nice name.” Elizabeth bit her lip, trying to hide her sudden wayward smile. “Original, too.” The smile hit Ian like a blow to the head, snapping him out of his untimely and unsuitable preoccupation with the dog. Straightening, he backed up a step and leaned his hip against the table, his weight braced on his opposite leg. Elizabeth instantly noticed the altering of his expression and watched nervously as he crossed his arms over his chest, watching her, his face inscrutable. “You-you look well,” she said, thinking he looked unbearably handsome. “I’m perfectly fine,” he assured her, his gaze level. “Remarkably well, actually, for a man who hasn’t seen the sun shine in more than three months, or been able to sleep without drinking a bottle of brandy.” His tone was so frank and unemotional that Elizabeth didn’t immediately grasp what he was saying. When she did, tears of joy and relief sprang to her eyes as he continued: “I’ve been working very hard. Unfortunately, I rarely get anything accomplished, and when I do, it’s generally wrong. All things considered, I would say that I’m doing very well-for a man who’s been more than half dead for three months.” Ian saw the tears shimmering in her magnificent eyes, and one of them traced unheeded down her smooth cheek. With a raw ache in his voice he said, “If you would take one step forward, darling, you could cry in my arms. And while you do, I’ll tell you how sorry I am for everything I’ve done-“ Unable to wait, Ian caught her, pulling her tightly against him. “And when I’m finished,” he whispered hoarsely as she wrapped her arms around him and wept brokenly, “you can help me find a way to forgive myself.” Tortured by her tears, he clasped her tighter and rubbed his jaw against her temple, his voice a ravaged whisper: “I’m sorry,” he told her. He cupped her face between his palms, tipping it up and gazing into her eyes, his thumbs moving over her wet cheeks. “I’m sorry.” Slowly, he bent his head, covering her mouth with his. “I’m so damned sorry.

What, indeed, is to humanise these beings, who rest shut up, for they seldom even open their windows, smoaking, drinking brandy, and driving bargains? I have been almost stifled by these smoakers. They begin in the morning, and are rarely without their pipe till they go to bed. Nothing can be more disgusting than the rooms and men towards the evening: breath, teeth, clothes, and furniture, all are spoilt. It is well that the women are not very delicate, or they would only love their husbands because they were their husbands. Perhaps, you may add, that the remark need not be confined to so small a part of the world; and, entre nous, I am of the same opinion. You must not term this inuendo saucy, for it does not come home.

I want you to give them back, Flambeau, and I want you to give up this life. There is still youth and honour and humour in you; don’t fancy they will last in that trade. Men may keep a sort of level of good, but no man has ever been able to keep on one level of evil. That road goes down and down. The kind man drinks and turns cruel; the frank man kills and lies about it. Many a man I’ve known started like you to be an honest outlaw, a merry robber of the rich, and ended stamped into slime. Maurice Blum started out as an anarchist of principle, a father of the poor; he ended a greasy spy and tale-bearer that both sides used and despised. Harry Burke started his free money movement sincerely enough; now he’s sponging on a half-starved sister for endless brandies and sodas. Lord

It's one of the things Cam and I discussed last evening- he said it's characteristic of Hathaway women, this need for demonstrations of affection." Amused and fascinated, Poppy made a face. "What else did he say?" Harry's mood altered with quicksilver speed. He threw her a dazzling grin. "He compared it to working with Arabian horses... they're responsive, quick, but they need their freedom. You never master an Arabian... you become its companion." He paused. "At least, I think that's what he said. I was half dead from exhaustion, and we were drinking brandy." "That sounds like Cam." Poppy raised her gaze heavenward. "And after dispensing this advice, he sent you to me, the horse." Harry stopped and pulled her against him, nudging her braid aside to kiss her neck. "Yes," he whispered. "And what a nice ride it was.

I didn’t answer, occupied in dissolving the penicillin tablets in the vial of sterile water. I selected a glass barrel, fitted a needle, and pressed the tip through the rubber covering the mouth of the bottle. Holding it up to the light, I pulled back slowly on the plunger, watching the thick white liquid fill the barrel, checking for bubbles. Then pulling the needle free, I depressed the plunger slightly until a drop of liquid pearled from the point and rolled slowly down the length of the spike. “Roll onto your good side,” I said, turning to Jamie, “and pull up your shirt.” He eyed the needle in my hand with keen suspicion, but reluctantly obeyed. I surveyed the terrain with approval. “Your bottom hasn’t changed a bit in twenty years,” I remarked, admiring the muscular curves. “Neither has yours,” he replied courteously, “but I’m no insisting you expose it. Are ye suffering a sudden attack of lustfulness?” “Not just at present,” I said evenly, swabbing a patch of skin with a cloth soaked in brandy. “That’s a verra nice make of brandy,” he said, peering back over his shoulder, “but I’m more accustomed to apply it at the other end.” “It’s also the best source of alcohol available. Hold still now, and relax.” I jabbed deftly and pressed the plunger slowly in. “Ouch!” Jamie rubbed his posterior resentfully. “It’ll stop stinging in a minute.” I poured an inch of brandy into the cup. “Now you can have a bit to drink—a very little bit.” He drained the cup without comment, watching me roll up the collection of syringes. Finally he said, “I thought ye stuck pins in ill-wish dolls when ye meant to witch someone; not in the people themselves.” “It’s not a pin, it’s a hypodermic syringe.” “I dinna care what ye call it; it felt like a bloody horseshoe nail. Would ye care to tell me why jabbing pins in my arse is going to help my arm?” I took a deep breath. “Well, do you remember my once telling you about germs?” He looked quite blank. “Little beasts too small to see,” I elaborated. “They can get into your body through bad food or water, or through open wounds, and if they do, they can make you ill.” He stared at his arm with interest. “I’ve germs in my arm, have I?” “You very definitely have.” I tapped a finger on the small flat box. “The medicine I just shot into your backside kills germs, though. You get another shot every four hours ’til this time tomorrow, and then we’ll see how you’re doing.” I paused. Jamie was staring at me, shaking his head. “Do you understand?” I asked. He nodded slowly. “Aye, I do. I should ha’ let them burn ye, twenty years ago.

Many of us drink in order to take that flight, in order to pour ourselves, literally, into new personalities: uncap the bottle, pop the cork, slide into someone else’s skin. A liquid makeover, from the inside out. Everywhere we look, we are told that this is possible; the knowledge creeps inside us and settles in dark corners, places where fantasies lie. We see it on billboards, in glossy magazine ads, in movies and on TV: we see couples huddled together by fires, sipping brandy, flames reflecting in the gleam of glass snifters; we see elegant groups raising celebratory glasses of wine in restaurants; we see friendships cemented over barstools and dark bottles of beer. We see secrets shared, problems solved, romances bloom. We watch, we know, and together the wine, beer, and liquor industries spend more than $1 billion each year*2 reinforcing this knowledge: drinking will transform us.

Once a renowned skirt-chaser, now an exceptionally devoted husband, St. Vincent knew as much about these matters as any man alive. When Cam had asked glumly if a decrease in physical urges was something that naturally occurred as a man approached his thirties, St. Vincent had choked on his drink. “Good God, no,” the viscount had said, coughing slightly as a swallow of brandy seared his throat. They had been in the manager’s office of the club, going over account books in the early hours of the morning. St. Vincent was a handsome man with wheat-colored hair and pale blue eyes. Some claimed he had the most perfect form and features of any man alive. The looks of a saint, the soul of a scoundrel. “If I may ask, what kind of women have you been taking to bed?” “What do you mean, what kind?” Cam had asked warily. “Beautiful or plain?” “Beautiful, I suppose.” “Well, there’s your problem,” St. Vincent said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Plain women are far more enjoyable. There’s no better aphrodisiac than gratitude.” “Yet you married a beautiful woman.” A slow smile had curved St. Vincent’s lips. “Wives are a different case altogether. They require a great deal of effort, but the rewards are substantial. I highly recommend wives. Especially one’s own.” Cam had stared at his employer with annoyance, reflecting that serious conversation with St. Vincent was often hampered by the viscount’s fondness for turning it into an exercise of wit. “If I understand you, my lord,” he said curtly, “your recommendation for a lack of desire is to start seducing unattractive women?” Picking up a silver pen holder, St. Vincent deftly fitted a nib into the end and made a project of dipping it precisely into an ink bottle. “Rohan, I’m doing my best to understand your problem. However, a lack of desire is something I’ve never experienced. I’d have to be on my deathbed before I stopped wanting—no, never mind, I was on my deathbed in the not-too-distant past, and even then I had the devil’s own itch for my wife.” “Congratulations,” Cam muttered, abandoning any hope of prying an earnest answer out of the man. “Let’s attend to the account books. There are more important matters to discuss than sexual habits.” St. Vincent scratched out a figure and set the pen back on its stand. “No, I insist on discussing sexual habits. It’s so much more entertaining than work.

Later in the evening, Devon and West had dinner in the dilapidated splendor of the dining room. The meal was of far better quality than they had expected, consisting of cold cucumber soup, roast pheasant dressed with oranges, and puddings rolled in sweetened bread crumbs. “I made the house steward unlock the cellar so I could browse over the wine collection,” West remarked. “It’s gloriously well provisioned. Among the spoils, there are at least ten varieties of important champagne, twenty cabernets, at least that many of bordeaux, and a large quantity of French brandy.” “Perhaps if I drink enough of it,” Devon said, “I won’t notice the house falling down around our ears.” “There are no obvious signs of weakness in the foundation. No walls out of plumb, for example, nor any visible cracks in the exterior stone that I’ve seen so far.” Devon glanced at him with mild surprise. “For a man who’s seldom more than half sober, you’ve noticed a great deal.” “Have I?” West looked perturbed. “Forgive me--I seem to have become accidentally lucid.” He reached for his wineglass. “Eversby Priory is one of the finest sporting estates in England. Perhaps we should shoot grouse tomorrow.” “Splendid,” Devon said. “I would enjoy beginning the day with killing something.

Looks like you’ve been busy,” he said as he set down the pail to survey the room. “You found water!” “There was a stream close by.” His gaze fixed on what she held in her hand. “I see you found my brandy.” Refusing to be embarrassed, she walked over to hand the flask to him. “I did indeed.” She shot him a mischievous glance as he drank some. “Who would guess that the estimable Mr. Pinter, so high in the instep, drinks strong spirits?” He scowled at her. “A little brandy on a cold day never hurt anyone. And I’m not high in the instep.” “Oh? Didn’t you tell Gabe only last week that most lords were only good for redistributing funds from their estates into all the gaming hells and brothels in London, and ignoring their duty to God and country?” When he flushed, she felt a twinge of conscience, but only a twinge. He looked so charming when he was flustered. “I wasn’t implying that your family…” “It’s all right,” she said, taking pity on him. He had saved her life, after all. “You have good reason to be high in the instep. And you’re not far wrong, in any case-there are many lords who are a blight upon society.” He was quiet a long moment. “I hope you realize that I don’t think that of your brothers. Or your brother-in-law. They’re fine men.” “Thank you.” Removing his surtout, he walked over to hang it on top of her cloak, then stood there warming his hands at the fire. “I wish I could say the same about your cousins.

I’m going to sleep now,” she said in a strangled voice. “Alone,” she added, and his face whitened as if she had slapped him. During his entire adult life Ian had relied almost as much on his intuition as on his intellect, and at that moment he didn’t want to believe in the explanation they were both offering. His wife did not want him in her bed; she recoiled from his touch; she had been away for two consecutive nights; and-more alarming than any of that-guilt and fear were written all over her pale face. “Do you know what a man thinks,” he said in a calm voice that belied the pain streaking through him, “when his wife stays away at night and doesn’t want him in her bed when she does return?” Elizabeth shook her head. “He thinks,” Ian said dispassionately, “that perhaps someone else has been taking his place in it.” Fury sent bright flags of color to her pale cheeks. “You’re blushing, my dear,” Ian said in an awful voice. “I am furious!” she countered, momentarily forgetting that she was confronting a madman. His stunned look was replaced almost instantly by an expression of relief and then bafflement. “I apologize, Elizabeth.” “Would you p-lease get out of here!” Elizabeth burst out in a final explosion of strength. “Just go away and let me rest. I told you I was tired. And I don’t see what right you have to be so upset! We had a bargain before we married-I was to be allowed to live my life without interference, and quizzing me like this is interference!” Her voice broke, and after another narrowed look he strode out of the room. Numb with relief and pain, Elizabeth crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up under her chin, but not even their luxurious warmth could still the alternating chills and fever that quaked through her. Several minutes later a shadow crossed her bed, and she almost screamed with terror before she realized it was Ian, who had entered silently though the connecting door of their suite. Since she’d gasped aloud when she saw him, it was useless to pretend she was sleeping. In silent dread she watched him walking toward her bed. Wordlessly he sat down beside her, and she realized there was a glass in his hand. He put it on the bedside table, then he reached behind her to prop up her pillows, leaving Elizabeth no choice but to sit up and lean back against them. “Drink this,” he instructed in a calm tone. “What is it?” she asked suspiciously. “It’s brandy. It will help you sleep.” He watched while she sipped it, and when he spoke again there was a tender smile in his voice. “Since we’ve ruled out another man as the explanation for all this, I can only assume something has gone wrong at Havenhurst. Is that it?” Elizabeth seized on that excuse as if it were manna from heaven. “Yes,” she whispered, nodding vigorously. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss on her forehead and said teasingly, “Let me guess-you discovered the mill overcharged you?” Elizabeth thought she would die of the sweet torment when he continued tenderly teasing her about being thrifty. “Not the mill? Then it was the baker, and he refused to give you a better price for buying two loaves instead of one.” Tears swelled behind her eyes, treacherously close to the surface, and Ian saw them. “That bad?” he joked.

For all the bachelors out there tonight, yeah for anybody who's never whistled this song. Maybe you whistled it but you lost the sheet music. Um...this is um...well actually I don't mind going to weddings or anything, as long as there not my own I show up. But I've always kinda been partial to calling myself up on the phone and asking myself out, you know? Oh yeah, you call yourself up too huh? Yeah, well one thing about it, your always around. Yeah I know, yeah you ask yourself out, you know, some class joint somewhere. The Buretto King or something, you know. Well I ain't cheap you know. Take yourself out for a couple of drinks maybe. Then there'd be some provocative conversation on the way home. Park in front of the house you know. Oh yeah, you smoothly put a little nice music on, maybe you put on like uh, you know, like shopping music, something thats not too interruptive you know and then uh slide over real nice and say 'Oh I think you have something in your eye'. Well maybe it's not that romantic with you but Christ I don't know, you know I get into it you know. Take myself up to the porch, take myself inside or maybe uh, or may get a little something, a brandy snifter or something. 'Would like you like to listen to some of my back records? I got something here' Uh Well usually about 2.30 in the morning you've ended up taking advantage of yourself. There ain't no way around that you know. Yeah, making a scene with a magazine, there ain't no way around. I'll confess you know, I'm no different you know. I'm not weird about it or anything, I don't tie myself up first. I just kinda spend a little time with myself

Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the café. Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." “Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side Street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down.

From Life, Volume III, by Unspiek, Baron Bodissey: I am constantly startled and often amused by the diverse attitudes toward wealth to be found among the peoples of the Oikumene. Some societies equate affluence with criminal skill; for others wealth represents the gratitude of society for the performance of valuable services. My own concepts in this regard are easy and clear, and I am sure that the word ‘simplistic’ will be used by my critics. These folk are callow and turgid of intellect; I am reassured by their howls and yelps. For present purposes I exclude criminal wealth, the garnering of which needs no elaboration, and a gambler’s wealth which is tinsel. In regard, then, to wealth: Luxury and privilege are the perquisites of wealth. This would appear a notably bland remark, but is much larger than it seems. If one listens closely, he hears deep and far below the mournful chime of inevitability. To achieve wealth, one generally must thoroughly exploit at least three of the following five attributes: Luck. Toil, persistence, courage. Self-denial. Short-range intelligence: cunning, improvisational ability. Long-range intelligence: planning, the perception of trends. These attributes are common; anyone desiring privilege and luxury can gain the precursory wealth by making proper use of his native competence. In some societies poverty is considered a pathetic misfortune, or noble abnegation, hurriedly to be remedied by use of public funds. Other more stalwart societies think of poverty as a measure of the man himself. The critics respond: What an unutterable ass is this fellow Unspiek! I am reduced to making furious scratches and crotchets with my pen! — Lionel Wistofer, in The Monstrator I am poor; I admit it! Am I then a churl or a noddy? I deny it with all the vehemence of my soul! I take my bite of seed-cake and my sip of tea with the same relish as any paunchy plutocrat with bulging eyes and grease running from his mouth as he engulfs ortolans in brandy, Krokinole oysters, filet of Darango Five-Horn! My wealth is my shelf of books! My privileges are my dreams! — Sistie Fael, in The Outlook … He moves me to tooth-chattering wrath; he has inflicted upon me, personally, a barrage of sheer piffle, and maundering insult which cries out to the Heavens for atonement. I will thrust my fist down his loquacious maw; better, I will horsewhip him on the steps of his club. If he has no club, I hereby invite him to the broad and convenient steps of the Senior Quill-drivers, although I must say that the Inksters maintain a superior bar, and this shall be my choice since, after trouncing the old fool, I will undoubtedly ask him in for a drink. — McFarquhar Kenshaw, in The Gaean

NICK [smiles at MARTHA. Then, to GEORGE, indicating a side table near the hall]: May I leave my drink here? GEORGE [as NICK exits without waiting for a reply]: Yeah . . . sure . . . why not? We've got half-filled glasses everywhere in the house, wherever Martha forgets she's left them...in the linen closet, on the edge of the bathtub....I even found one in the freezer, once. MARTHA [Amused in spite of herself]: You did not! GEORGE: Yes I did. MARTHA [ibid.]: You did not! GEORGE [Giving HONEY her brandy]: Yes I did. [To HONEY] Brandy doesn't give you a hangover? HONEY: I never mix. And then, I don't drink very much, either. GEORGE [Grimaces behind her back]: Oh...that's good. Your...your husband was telling me about the ...chromosomes. MARTHA [Ugly]: The What? GEORGE: The chromosomes, Martha...the genes, or whatever they are. [To HONEY] You've got quite a ...terrifying husband. HONEY [As if she's being joshed]: Ohhhhhhhhh.... GEORGE: No, really. He's quite terrifying, with his chromosomes, and all. MARTHA: He's in the Math Department. GEORGE: No, Martha...he's a biologist. MARTHA [Her voice rising]: He's in the Math Department! HONEY [Timidly]: Uh...biology. MARTHA [Unconvinced]: Are you sure? HONEY [With a little giggle]: Well, I ought to. [Then as an afterthought] Be. MARTHA [Grumpy]: I suppose so. I don't know who said he was in the Math Department. GEORGE: You did, Martha. MARTHA [By way of irritable explanation]: Well, I can't be expected to remember everything. I meet fifteen new teachers and their goddamn wives...present company outlawed, of course...[HONEY nods, smiles sillily]...and I'm supposed to remember everything. [Pause] So? He's a biologist. Good for him. Biology's even better. It's less...abstruse. GEORGE: Abstract. MARTHA: ABSTRUSE! In the sense of recondite. [Sticks her tongue out at GEORGE] Don't you tell me words. Biology's even better. It's...right at the meat of things. [NICK re-enters] You're right at the meat of things, baby. NICK [Taking his drink from the side table]: Oh? HONEY [With that giggle]: They thought you were in the Math Department. NICK: Well, maybe I ought to be. MARTHA: You stay right where you are...you stay right at the...meat of things. GEORGE: You're obsessed with that phrase, Martha....It's ugly. MARTHA [Ignoring GEORGE...to NICK]: You stay right there. [Laughs] Hell, you can take over the History Department just as easy from there as anywhere else. God knows, somebody's going to take over the History Department, some day, and it ain't going to be Georgie-boy, there...that's for sure. Are ya, swampy...are ya, Hunh? GEORGE: In my mind, Martha, you are buried in cement, right up to your neck. [MARTHA giggles] No...right up to your nose...that's much quieter.

A stranger. Young, well-dressed, pale and visibly sweaty, as if he’d endured some great shock and needed a drink. West would have been tempted to pour him one, if not for the fact that he’d just pulled a small revolver from his pocket and was pointing it in his direction. The nose of the short barrel was shaking. Commotion erupted all around them as patrons became aware of the drawn pistol. Tables and chairs were vacated, and shouts could be heard among the growing uproar. “You self-serving bastard,” the stranger said unsteadily. “That could be either of us,” Severin remarked with a slight frown, setting down his drink. “Which one of us do you want to shoot?” The man didn’t seem to hear the question, his attention focused only on West. “You turned her against me, you lying, manipulative snake.” “It’s you, apparently,” Severin said to West. “Who is he? Did you sleep with his wife?” “I don’t know,” West said sullenly, knowing he should be frightened of an unhinged man aiming a pistol at him. But it took too much energy to care. “You forgot to cock the hammer,” he told the man, who immediately pulled it back. “Don’t encourage him, Ravenel,” Severin said. “We don’t know how good a shot he is. He might hit me by mistake.” He left his chair and began to approach the man, who stood a few feet away. “Who are you?” he asked. When there was no reply, he persisted, “Pardon? Your name, please?” “Edward Larson,” the young man snapped. “Stay back. If I’m to be hanged for shooting one of you, I’ll have nothing to lose by shooting both of you.” West stared at him intently. The devil knew how Larson had found him there, but clearly he was in a state. Probably in worse condition than anyone in the club except for West. He was clean-cut, boyishly handsome, and looked like he was probably very nice when he wasn’t half-crazed. There could be no doubt as to what had made him so wretched—he knew his wrongdoings had been exposed, and that he’d lost any hope of a future with Phoebe. Poor bastard. Picking up his glass, West muttered, “Go on and shoot.” Severin continued speaking to the distraught man. “My good fellow, no one could blame you for wanting to shoot Ravenel. Even I, his best friend, have been tempted to put an end to him on a multitude of occasions.” “You’re not my best friend,” West said, after taking a swallow of brandy. “You’re not even my third best friend.” “However,” Severin continued, his gaze trained on Larson’s gleaming face, “the momentary satisfaction of killing a Ravenel—although considerable—wouldn’t be worth prison and public hanging. It’s far better to let him live and watch him suffer. Look how miserable he is right now. Doesn’t that make you feel better about your own circumstances? I know it does me.” “Stop talking,” Larson snapped. As Severin had intended, Larson was distracted long enough for another man to come up behind him unnoticed. In a deft and well-practiced move, the man smoothly hooked an arm around Larson’s neck, grasped his wrist, and pushed the hand with the gun toward the floor. Even before West had a good look at the newcomer’s face, he recognized the smooth, dry voice with its cut-crystal tones, so elegantly commanding it could have belonged to the devil himself. “Finger off the trigger, Larson. Now.” It was Sebastian, the Duke of Kingston . . . Phoebe’s father. West lowered his forehead to the table and rested it there, while his inner demons all hastened to inform him they really would have preferred the bullet.

has approached me and Aksel was nearby, Aksel practically chased him away. This happened even before Aksel and I were together. And Aksel happens to be our last stop on the tour. Because it’s Sunday and it’s the evening, I know just where to find him. He’s in the living room, in his usual chair, drinking brandy. I had told him twice already that Amelie was coming, hence why I was actually using my day off. I normally would just march right over to him, but since I’m supposed to be the mere nanny and he is a King and this is my supervisor of sorts, formality rules. I clear my throat loud enough for Aksel to hear it. “Pardon me, sir,” I say, and he turns in his seat to look at me, brows raised. “But I have a guest here to meet you.” I look to Amelie but her cool French façade is cracking and she’s frozen in her tracks. “Amelie, this is His Majesty

Do you . . . is there fondness between you?” The hesitant question provoked a laugh as dry as the rustle of corn husks. “I don’t know, actually. Neither of us is exactly comfortable with affection.” “She’s a bit more comfortable with it than you, I think.” Glancing at her warily, Harry saw that there was no censure on her face. “I’m trying to improve,” he said. “It’s one of the things Cam and I discussed last evening—he said it’s characteristic of Hathaway women, this need for demonstrations of affection.” Amused and fascinated, Poppy made a face. “What else did he say?” Harry’s mood altered with quicksilver speed. He threw her a dazzling grin. “He compared it to working with Arabian horses . . . they’re responsive, quick, but they need their freedom. You never master an Arabian . . . you become its companion.” He paused. “At least, I think that’s what he said. I was half dead from exhaustion, and we were drinking brandy.

What are you about, Moncrieffe?" Eversea did look decidedly ill. "What am I about...? Well, I'm 'about' to enjoy, or at least drink, a cup of ratafia. Or brandy if I can get it. I'm about to join your father for a brief discussion of an investment opportunity in his study. I'm about to divest your neighbors and guests of their money in five-card loo. But that's later. More importantly, I'm about to dance with your sister." It was the smile Moncrieffe offered here, and the way he said "sister," that had Ian reaching, in a reflex almost as old as time, for a sword he wasn't wearing. He forced his hand to ease. For Moncrieffe had seen it; he casually placed his own hand inside his coat. A pistol was never far from his person.

The waiter walked over with a tray and two orangey-pink drinks. He placed them on the table. "Georgia Peaches. Peach schnapps, brandy, cranberry juice- the first request the bartender's ever had for one of these.

eggnog (BRITISH also egg flip) n. [mass noun] a drink consisting of rum, brandy, or other alcohol mixed with beaten egg, milk, and sugar.

He wants to drink Brandy, with lots of love of the Rock.