Brooks Brothers Quotes

I love you. On intense days. On good days. On long, exhausting work days. On really strange days when I find out that I have a long-lost brother. And most of all, on days when you make me smile, which happens to be every day I'm with you. You are not just a big-picture girl for me, Brooke Parker. You're the only picture.

Start your work from where you live, with the small concrete needs right around you. Help ease tension in your workplace. Help feed the person right in front of you. Personalism holds that we each have a deep personal obligation to live simply, to look after the needs of our brothers and sisters, and to share in the happiness and misery they are suffering.

We’re never so outraged as when a cabbie drives past us or the woman in the elevator clutches her purse, not so much because we’re bothered by the fact that such indignities are what less fortunate coloreds have to put up with every single day of their lives—although that’s what we tell ourselves—but because we’re wearing a Brooks Brothers suit and speak impeccable English and yet have somehow been mistaken for an ordinary nigger.

She may not be able to teach the baby how to cook, but she could teach the child how to shoot a gun and how to disarm a man when being attacked with a knife. You never knew when those things could come in handy.

clean-shaven and dressed in the conventional disguise with which Brooks Brothers cover the shame of American millionaires.

I wish Mara knew that I’m jealous of her.” I whipped around to face him. “You can’t be serious.” Brooke shook her finger. “No interruptions, Mara.” My brother cleared his throat. “I wish she knew that I think she’s the most hilarious person on Earth. And that whenever she’s not home, I feel like I’m missing my partner in crime.” My throat tightened. Do not cry. Do not cry. “I wish she knew that she’s really Mom’s favorite—” I shook my head here. “—the princess she always wanted. That Mom used to dress her up like a little doll and parade her around like Mara was her greatest achievement. I wish Mara knew that I never minded, because she’s my favorite too.” A chin quiver. Damn. “I wish she knew that I’ve always had acquaintances instead of friends because I’ve spent every second I’m not in school studying or practicing piano. I wish she knew that she is literally as smart as I am—her IQ is ONE POINT lower,” he said, raising his eyes to meet mine. “Mom had us tested. And that she could get the same grades if she weren’t so lazy.” I slouched in my seat, and may or may not have crossed my arms over my chest defensively. “I wish she knew that I am really proud of her, and that I always will be, no matter what.

She felt like a woman on fire. Would it be bad to have sex with Santa in the closet?

More than anything, I wanted to help her write new words, on perfectly crisp, untouched paper, and to come up with a flawless title, for the perfect story.

Now, of all times in my life, did I wish Caleb truly was my brother, rather than that selfish, imperious, weak-willed soul to whom fate had shackled me.

Pierce, you’re a guy. If you were perfect all the time, then you’d be a woman,” Tammy teased.

Boys dream of strippers, men dream of their women waiting for them at home.

What if we take away the cool music and the cushioned chairs? What if the screens are gone and the stage is no longer decorated? What if the air conditioning is off and the comforts are removed? Would his Word still be enough for his people to come together? At Brook Hills we decided to try to answer this question. We actually stripped away the entertainment value and invited people to come together simply to study God’s Word for hours at a time. We called it Secret Church. We set a date—one Friday night—when we would gather from six o’clock in the evening until midnight, and for six hours we would do nothing but study the Word and pray. We would interrupt the six-hour Bible study periodically to pray for our brothers and sisters around the world who are forced to gather secretly. We would also pray for ourselves, that we would learn to love the Word as they do.

Elle slammed the reindeer cookie cutter down and viciously yanked the extra dough from around it. Her mother, brother, and sisters all stopped to stare at her. “Whoa. Put the reindeer down gently and step away from Santa,

Do you always wear Malaysian imitations of Brooks Brothers blue oxford button-downs, Mr. Laney?" Laney had looked down at his shirt, or tried to. "Malaysia?" "The stitch-count's dead on, but they still haven't mastered the thread-tension." "Oh." "Never mind. A little prototypic nerd chic could actually lend a certain frisson, around here. You could lose the tie, though. Definitely lose the tie. And keep a collection of felt-tipped pens in your pocket. Unchewed, please. Plus one of those fat flat highlighters, in a really nasty fluorescent shade." "Are you joking?" "Probably, Mr. Laney. May I call you Colin?" "Yes." She never did call him "Colin," then or ever. "You'll find that humor is essential at Slitscan, Laney. A necessary survival tool. You'll find the type that's most viable here is fairly oblique." "How do you mean, Ms. Torrance?" "Kathy. I mean difficult to quote effectively in a memo. Or a court of law.

Men like women who look like women, not ten-year-old boys with inflatable toys on their chests.

one, never show fear, two, never get attached, and three, if all else fails, fake it until you make it.

sometimes those who overvalue their strengths are the most dangerous because they simply do not understand that they cannot win, so they keep trying.

A real man is one who can admit his true feelings.

He was a cliffhanger and I was a happily ever after.

How upset is she?” “Let me put it this way,” his brother began, “All the shit you’ve shoveled from stalls in your life is nothing compared to how deep you’re in it now.

Devon just about skipped from his brother’s townhouse to Brooks. The sun was shining, and the birds were singing, and even the horses moved their arses out of Devon’s way to shit.

Does it really make a difference to the victims whether the terrorists wear Bedouin robes and headgear, or Brooks Brothers suits and Rolex watches?

Whether they come from Brooks Brothers or a thrift store, the sweaters we wear have a magnificent ancestry. Their history spans the worlds of Irish fishermen, French knights, World War I soldiers, busty Hollywood 'sweater girls,' and the television saint Mr. Rogers. That history lives in each garment. By being aware of it, we can better appreciate what we have.

I expected to be happy, but let me tell you something. Anticipating happiness and being happy are two entirely different things. I told myself that all I wanted to do was go to the mall. I wanted to look at the pretty girls, ogle the Victoria's Secret billboards, and hit on girls at the Sam Goody record store. I wanted to sit in the food court and gorge on junk food. I wanted to go to Bath and Body Works, stand in the middle of the store, and breathe. I wanted to stand there with my eyes closed and just smell, man. I wanted to lose myself in the total capitalism and consumerism of it all, the pure greediness, the pure indulgence, the pure American-ness of it all. I never made it that far. I didn't even make it out of the airport in Baltimore with all its Cinnabons, Starbucks, Brooks Brothers, and Brookstones before realizing that after where we'd been, after what we'd seen, home would never be home again.

His jean shorts started at his thighs and ended at his ankles. She had no idea why thugs liked this style of clothing, but it worked for her. It was hard to run with your pants falling down.

They, they, they. That was the problem with people like Joyce. They talked about the richness of their multicultural heritage and it sounded real good, until you noticed that they avoided black people. It wasn't a matter of conscious choice, necessarily, just a matter of gravitational pull, the way integration always worked, a one-way street. The minority assimilated into the dominant culture, not the other way around. Only white culture could be neutral and objective. Only white culture could be nonracial, willing to adopt the occasional exotic into its ranks. Only white culture had individuals. And we, the half-breeds and the college-degreed, take a survey of the situation and think to ourselves, Why should we get lumped in with the losers if we don't want to? We become only so grateful to lose ourselves in the crowd, America's happy, faceless marketplace; and we're never so outraged as when a cabbie drives past us or the woman in the elevator clutches her purse, not so much because we're bothered by the fact that such indignities are what less fortunate coloreds have to put up with every single day of their lives-- although that's what we tell ourselves-- but because we're wearing a Brooks Brothers suit and speak impeccable English and yet have somehow been mistaken for an ordinary nigger. Don't know who I am? I'm an individual!

Josh, I had three fucking orgasms, of course I liked it, but it can’t happen again. You were being all bossy and broody, and you know that makes me want to rip off my panties and yell ‘here, have at it’.

Ah! His day just got brighter. Marshall had to admit, he was having a lot of fun tormenting Katelyn. There was nothing that made him laugh harder than to see her dive behind a car when she saw him coming.

My God, don’t they know? This stuff is simulacra of simulacra of simulacra. A diluted tincture of Ralph Lauren, who had himself diluted the glory days of Brooks Brothers, who themselves had stepped on the product of Jermyn Street and Savile Row, flavoring their ready-to-wear with liberal lashings of polo knit and regimental stripes. But Tommy surely is the null point, the black hole. There must be some Tommy Hilfiger event horizon, beyond which it is impossible to be more derivative, more removed from the source, more devoid of soul. Or so she hopes, and doesn’t know, but suspects in her heart that this in fact is what accounts for his long ubiquity.

Fear was a devastating thing. It gripped you to the point of being completely incapacitated and swallowed every rational thought that was your given right. The most frightening part of fear was that it had the potential to completely destroy you if you let it.

[Rick] “Tara.” The sound of his voice snapped her away from the memories. His command brooked no argument as he looked up from between her spread thighs. “Eyes on me.” His voice told her not to think, dominated every part of her soul, until she couldn’t fight him, and she slipped firmly back into the present.

Can I ask when my woman became all of your woman?” Mo requested to know from behind me, and he didn’t sound happy. “Until we get our own,” Mag answered breezily. “You know sister wives? We’re like brother husbands.” “No you aren’t.” There was my man’s Brook No Argument Tone. “Without the benefits of course,” Mag added.

Studs Terkel was waiting for a number 146 bus alongside two well-groomed business types. "This was before the term yuppie was used," he explains. "But that was what they were. He was in Brooks Brothers and Gucci shoes and carrying the Wall Street Journal under his arm. She was a looker. I mean stunning - Bloomingdales and Neiman Marcus and carrying Vanity Fair." Terkel, who is 95, has long been a Chicago icon, every bit as accessible and integral to the cultural life of the Windy City as Susan Sontag was to New York. He had shared the bus stop with this couple for several mornings but they had always failed to acknowledge him. "It hurts my ego," he quips. "But this morning the bus was late and I thought, this is my chance." The rest of the story is his. "I say, 'Labour Day is coming up.' Well, it was the wrong thing to say. He looks toward me with a look of such contempt it's like Noel Coward has just spotted a bug on his collar. He says, 'We despise unions.' I thought, oooooh. The bus is still late. I've got a winner here. Suddenly I'm the ancient mariner and I fix him with my glittering eye. 'How many hours a day do you work?' I ask. He says, 'Eight.' 'How comes you don't work 18 hours a day like your great-great-grandfather did? You know why? Because four guys got hanged in Chicago in 1886 fighting for the eight-hour day ... For you.

Time was, all you needed for good sleuthing was snappy banter, a wink and a nod with the ladies, comfortable shoes, an assortment of fake business cards, a high tolerance for whiskey, a few extra bucks you could slip a bent maitre d' and maybe a Burberry trench coat with a "gat" stuffed in the deep pocket of thread-bare Brooks Brothers wool slacks.

Tonight had taught her one thing. She was tired of being alone. She was tired of working so hard and then coming home to an empty house with no one to share her day with.

She wondered if Hallmark made a card for women like her—“Happy Valentine’s Day. One more year celebrating your spinsterhood.

the only people who point out the finer points of life, while looking down their nose at others, are the ones who are too new to money to know better than to behave so poorly!

JESUS CHRIST, SHE WAS tight. The more I edged in, the tighter her body squeezed my cock, which inevitably sent pleasure spiraling through me.

It was no good; I was like a charging bull, with only red in my sight. It was pretty fucking accurate, considering I was storming toward the girl in the red jacket.

they knew that what they hoped for from the operation was to safeguard their daughters’ chastity, because upon that chastity depended the honor of the girls’ fathers and brothers.

Two things that lived separately and yet together: a brook and the sky, the wind and the water that coursed through both their veins.. You needed both to sail.

He was in love with her, but he had no idea what to do about it.

Well, I have five brothers—Rest, Thankful, Watching, Patience, Consider—and each one of them the very opposite of their name.

Marko looked as if he could use a makeover himself. A big-boned six foot three, he was much stockier than most Serbians, with an olive complexion and the out-of-proportion head of a Peanuts character. He wore an overcoat that was one size too big, a thick gray Brooks Brothers sweater with flecks of white, and a cream-colored turtleneck that actually made him look like a turtle. Marko

I did another commercial. Don't lose your loved ones, I wrote, because of excessive radioactivity. Don't be a wallflower at the dance because of strontium 90 in your bones. Don't be a victim of fallout. When the tart on Thirty-sixth Street gives you the big eye does your body stride off in one direction and your imagination in another? Does your mind follow her up the stairs and taste her wares in revolting detail while your flesh goes off to Brooks Brothers or the foreign exchange desk of the Chase Manhattan Bank? Haven't you noticed the size of the ferns, the lushness of the grass, the bitterness of the string beans, and the brilliant makings on the new breeds of butterflies? You have been inhaling lethal atomic waste for the last twenty-five years and only Elixircol can save you.

Two things that lived separately and yet together: a brook and the sky, the wind and the water that coursed through both their veins. You needed both to sail. You needed both in tandem to achieve perfection.

Someday we’ll find the one we cannot live without. The perfect man who will love us both,” Gia giggled as she wrapped Gemma in a hug. “He’ll make you smile and laugh and put up with you talking to me every day.

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— Comes a still voice— Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods—rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man— Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Eden, it would be a lie if I told you I didn’t want to kiss those perfect lips again. That’s what I am fighting with at the moment, so no I do not want you to leave. I want you to stick around so you can continue to torment me.

How many times had he wished he could reach out and touch the sky – to feel the heat of a star and study its contours? And standing here now, that was exactly what he felt he was doing. Unable to help himself, he looked at Brooke with wonder. “This is…amazing.

Feathertail gazed into the young prey-hunter’s eyes. She knew Brook believed what she was saying, but she couldn’t forget how Stormfur had thought that this cat was his friend. Stormfur didn’t make friends easily—a legacy of being half-Clan, always feeling as if he had more to prove than other warriors, as if he could never fight hard enough or catch enough prey. Feathertail had watched this she-cat win her brother’s trust, but now she had betrayed him, and would probably see him die in a battle with Sharptooth for the sake of her Tribe.

With berries, fruit, and water-brooks. There build thee with thy brother's aid A cottage in the quiet shade, And faithful to thy sire's behest, Obedient to the sentence, rest. For well, O sinless chieftain, well I know thy tale, how all befell: Stern penance and the love I bore Thy royal sire supply

I had opened the obvious drawer, the top drawer of the room's only dresser, and found myself gazing into a masculine cache of compressed, crumpled things. Wash-worn Brooks Brothers white cotton shorts now a pale shade of gray. Snake-tangled, unpaired argyle socks, all in bright Easter colors like clover ad mauve which still showed fairly crisp near the tops, but down toward the heels were marred by thread pills and snags, and at the toes by the outright abjection of holes. To see laid bare in their entirety those socks, of which I'd heretofore glimpsed only brief merry stripes, when a pant cuff rose up from the rim of a shoe, was like seeing the man himself fully exposed to me--naked.

I like the rain,” I said, kissing her goodnight and pulling her closer to my side. Brooke rested her head on my chest. “Why is that?” “It’s a reset. Tomorrow, we can go outside. The grass will be greener, the air clearer, and the pond higher. Sometimes, life needs to pause. And sometimes, it takes something beyond our control to make that happen.

But Flick did not feel that his brother was entirely rational in his analysis of the Prince of Leah. Leah was one of the few remaining monarchies in the Southland, and Shea was an outspoken advocate of decentralized government, an opponent of absolute power. Nevertheless, he claimed friendship with the heir to a monarch’s throne—facts which in Flick’s opinion seemed entirely inconsistent

I turned and looked at her. She was a major in Costume Design and as such had all kinds of peculiar clothing in her room. “Is it yours?” I said. “I stole it from the wardrobe at the Costume shop. I was going to cut it up and make, like, a bustier out of it.” Great, I thought, but I went along with her anyway. The jacket, unexpectedly, was wonderful—old Brooks Brothers, unlined silk, ivory with stripes of peacock green—a little loose, but it fit all right. “Judy,” I said, looking at my cuffs. “This is wonderful. You sure you don’t mind?” “You can have it,” said Judy. “I don’t have time to do anything with it. I’m too busy sewing those dammed costumes for fucking As You Like It. It goes up in three weeks and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve got all these freshmen working for me this term that don’t know a sewing machine from a hole in the ground.

Brook, you don't sound like yourself." My reply came out of my mouth before I could choose it. "I am not the person I was three weeks ago and I will never be that person again." Surprised by my own response, I relayed it to my therapist who was helping me work through issues surrounding my brother's death. "Of course you're not," she said. "And one of the best things you can do for yourself is to know that you are a different person now.

She matters. It’s why I do what I do — they matter, the people. If they’re alone in the world, or caught in this net... Whether someone’s son or daughter, brother or sister, aunt or uncle, niece or nephew, grandkid. It’s the one lost sheep. We’re the sheepdogs, remember?’ They all knew the saying that there were three types of people: sheep, the wolves who seek to devour the sheep, and the sheepdogs who do what it takes to protect the sheep. Many times, that wasn’t pretty. In fact, it was often downright bloody.

(which I never cared for, though the covers were killer), Stephen R. Lawhead’s The Pendragon Cycle, Robert Jordan’s The Eye of the World, Terry Brooks’s The Sword of Shannara, and of course, towering above them all, J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings—a book I hadn’t read, which caused my brother no end of consternation. I had seen the animated films seven hundred times, so I didn’t think I needed to read it yet. (Don’t be angry. Tolkien, for me, came later.) But hobbits aside, I stood in the aisle at Waldenbooks and yearned, I tell you.

I remember at the reception you said to me, 'I'm the daughter of a father who's been married five times. Mother killed herself. My sister killed herself. My brother has been in a mental institution. I'm twenty-three and divorced with two kids.' I said, 'Brooke, either you've got to open the window right now'--we were on the tenth floor--'either you've got to open the window right now and jump out, or say "I'm going to live," because you're right, it's the worst family history that anybody ever had, and either you jump out the window or you live.

There was much more she would have liked to tell her brother. But within a few months, she would be able to tell him in person. When he learned of the attack on the airship, nothing would stop Archimedes and his wife from coming. But at least they would fly to the Red City instead of Krakentown, where he might be recognized as the smuggler Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste. One day, she might write a story inspired by that part of his career. She would call it The Idiot Smuggler Who Destroyed the Horde Rebellion’s War Machines and Changed His Name to Avoid the Rebel Assassins. Zenobia would take pity on the idiot’s sister and leave her out of the tale. She

The New-England Courant brooked no censor: it was the first “unlicensed” newspaper in the colonies; that is, the colonial government did not grant it a license, and did not review its content before publication. James Franklin decided to use his newspaper to criticize both the government and the clergy, at a time when the two were essentially one, and Massachusetts a theocracy. “The Plain Design of your Paper is to Banter and Abuse the Ministers of God,” Cotton Mather seethed at him. In 1722, James Franklin was arrested for sedition. While he was in prison, his little brother and hardworking apprentice took over printing the Courant, and there appeared on the masthead, for the first time, the name BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.71

Roboute Guilliman was able to focus on dozens of things at once and give them attention in excess of what most mortal minds could achieve dealing with just one such subject. It was what made him such a good logistician, and while the Lion might not have a great many compliments ready for his brother, the Lord of Ultramar’s organisational skills could not be denied: many of the Ultramarines’ successes came down to simply never encountering a situation for which they were not prepared. Guilliman himself had only ever been an adequate combatant in person, however; at least so far as their brotherhood went. The Lion has sometimes wondered if that was because Roboute was never able to properly give his full attention to anything.

The king and queen are preparing an expulsion order—” David sucked in his breath. “Yes, even as we have feared. They have taken the capitulation of Granada as a sign of divine will that Spain be a Christian country. It is, then, their intention to thank God for their victory by declaring Spain a land where no Jew may remain. The choice is to convert, or depart. They have hatched this plan in secret, but finally the queen has confided it to her old friend Don Seneor.” “But how could the king and queen do such a thing as this? It is Jewish money—or at least Jewish money raising—that has secured them the victory over the Moors!” “We have been milked, my brother. And now, like a dry cow, we are to be dispatched to the slaughterhouse.

While Celia was gone he walked up and down remembering what he had originally felt about Dorothea's engagement, and feeling a revival of his disgust at Mr. Brooke's indifference. If Cadwallader-- if every one else had regarded the affair as he, Sir James, had done, the marriage might have been hindered. It was wicked to let a young girl blindly decide her fate in that way, without any effort to save her. Sir James had long ceased to have any regrets on his own account: his heart was satisfied with his engagement to Celia. But he had a chivalrous nature (was not the disinterested service of woman among the ideal glories of old chivalry?): his disregarded love had not turned to bitterness; its death had made sweet odors-- floating memories that clung with a consecrating effect to Dorothea. He could remain her brotherly friend, interpreting her actions with generous trustfulness.

I looked over at her, surprised. Susan Brooks was one of those girls who never say anything unless called upon, the ones that teachers always have to ask to speak up, please. A very studious, very serious girl. A rather pretty but not terribly bright girl-the kind who isn't allowed to give up and take the general or the commercial courses, because she had a terribly bright older brother or older sister, and teachers expect comparable things from her. In fine, one of those girls who are holding the dirty end of the stick with as much good grace and manners as they can muster. Usually they marry truck drivers and move to the West Coast, where they have kitchen nooks with Formica counters-and they write letters to the Folks Back East as seldom as they can get away with. They make quiet, successful lives for themselves and grow prettier as the shadow of the bright older brother or sister falls away from them.

One would have said that modest John Brooke, in his busy, quiet, humble life, had had little time to make friends; but now they seemed to start up everywhere, old and young, rich and poor, high and low; for all unconsciously his influence had made itself widely felt, his virtues were remembered, and his hidden charities rose up to bless him. The group about his coffin was a far more eloquent eulogy than any Mr. March could utter. There were the rich men whom he had served faithfully for years; the poor old women whom he cherished with his little store, in memory of his mother; the wife to whom he had given such happiness that death could not mar it utterly; the brothers and sisters in whose hearts he had made a place for ever; the little son and daughter, who already felt the loss of his strong arm and tender voice; the young children, sobbing for their kindest playmate, and the tall lads, watching with softened faces a scene which they never could forget.

To the Highland Girl of Inversneyde SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these gray rocks, this household lawn, These trees—a veil just half withdrawn, This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake, This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth together ye do seem Like something fashion’d in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know thee nor thy peers: And yet my eyes are fill’d with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away; For never saw I mien or face In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scatter’d, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrass’d look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacédness: Thou wear’st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread, Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brook’d, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea: and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father, anything to thee. Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place: Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old As fair before me shall behold As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And Thee, the spirit of them all

You said she works at an ice-cream shop around here, right?” He made a big show of wiping the sweat off his brow. “Come to think of it, a nice double cone would really hit the spot in this heat.” Zach’s expression was one of pure teenage mortification. “Yeah, because that’s exactly what will help my inability to talk to her—my older brother watching and critiquing all my moves.” “I thought we’d already established that you don’t have any moves.” “Now that’s funny. Picking on someone half your age. Hey, here’s an idea: I’ll introduce you to Paige as soon as I meet this so-called smart, witty, and hot woman you’re supposedly seeing. Sounds a lot like one of those made-up girlfriends who live in Niagara Falls.” “She’s real. I’m seeing her tonight, in fact.” They hadn’t decided their specific plans yet, but Brooke had texted him last night, asking if he was free. “Wow. You actually, like, beamed when you said that.” “Get out of here,” Cade scoffed. “I did not.” “What’s her name?” Cade opened his mouth to answer, then paused. Zach grinned. “Worried you can’t say it without beaming again?” Ridiculous. “Her name is Brooke.” He deliberately maintained a straight face Zach made a big show of studying him, presumably looking for any sign of this alleged “beaming.” He stepped closer and then, with a comically scrutinizing face, slowly looked at one side of Cade’s face, and then the other. Cade never cracked once. Finally, Zach gave up. “Dude, I’m impressed. You need to show me that trick.

Then she cried quickly, "Stay, brother, stay! do not drink, or you will become a wild beast, and tear me to pieces." Thirsty as he was, the brother conquered his desire to drink at her words, and said, "Dear sister, I will wait till we come to a spring." So they wandered farther, but as they approached, she heard in the bubbling spring the words— "Who drinks of me, a wolf will be." "Brother, I pray you, do not drink of this brook; you will be changed into a wolf, and devour me." Again the brother denied himself and promised to wait; but he said, "At the next stream I must drink, say what you will, my thirst is so great." Not far off ran a pretty streamlet, looking clear and bright; but here also in its murmuring waters, the sister heard the words— "Who dares to drink of me, Turned to a stag will be." "Dear brother, do not drink," she began; but she was too late, for her brother had already knelt by the stream to drink, and as the first drop of water touched his lips he became a fawn. How the little sister wept over the enchanted brother, and the fawn wept also. He did not run away, but stayed close to her; and at last she said, "Stand still, dear fawn; don't fear, I must take care of you, but I will never leave you." So she untied her little golden garter and fastened it round the neck of the fawn; then she gathered some soft green rushes, and braided them into a soft string, which she fastened to the fawn's golden collar, and then led him away into the depths of the forest. After wandering about for some time, they at last found a little deserted hut, and the sister was overjoyed, for she thought it would form a nice shelter for them both. So she led the fawn in, and then went out alone, to gather moss and dried leaves, to make him a soft bed. Every morning she went out to gather dried roots, nuts, and berries, for her own food, and sweet fresh grass for the fawn, which he ate out of her hand, and the poor little animal went out with her, and played about as happy as the day was long. When evening came, and the poor sister felt tired, she would kneel down and say her prayers, and then lay her delicate head on the fawn's back, which was a soft warm pillow, on which she could sleep peacefully. Had this dear

Mr Casaubon’s behaviour about settlements was highly satisfactory to Mr Brooke, and the preliminaries of marriage rolled smoothly along, shortening the weeks of courtship. The betrothed bride must see her future home, and dictate any changes that she would like to have made there. A woman dictates before marriage in order that she may have an appetite for submission afterwards. And certainly, the mistakes that we male and female mortals make when we have our own way might fairly raise some wonder that we are so fond of it. On a grey but dry November morning Dorothea drove to Lowick in company with her uncle and Celia. Mr Casaubon’s home was the manor-house. Close by, visible from some parts of the garden, was the little church, with the old parsonage opposite. In the beginning of his career, Mr Casaubon had only held the living, but the death of his brother had put him in possession of the manor also. It had a small park, with a fine old oak here and there, and an avenue of limes towards the south-west front, with a sunk fence between park and pleasure-ground, so that from the drawing-room windows the glance swept uninterruptedly along a slope of greensward till the limes ended in a level of corn and pastures, which often seemed to melt into a lake under the setting sun. This was the happy side of the house, for the south and east looked rather melancholy even under the brightest morning. The grounds here were more confined, the flower-beds showed no very careful tendance, and large clumps of trees, chiefly of sombre yews, had risen high, not ten yards from the windows. The building, of greenish stone, was in the old English style, not ugly, but small-windowed and melancholy-looking: the sort of house that must have children, many flowers, open windows, and little vistas of bright things, to make it seem a joyous home. In this latter end of autumn, with a sparse remnant of yellow leaves falling slowly athwart the dark evergreens in a stillness without sunshine, the house too had an air of autumnal decline, and Mr Casaubon, when he presented himself, had no bloom that could be thrown into relief by that background. ‘Oh dear!’ Celia said to herself, ‘I am sure Freshitt Hall would have been pleasanter than this.’ She thought of the white freestone, the pillared portico, and the terrace full of flowers, Sir James smiling above them like a prince issuing from his enchantment in a rosebush, with a handkerchief swiftly metamorphosed from the most delicately-odorous petals—Sir James, who talked so agreeably, always about things which had common-sense in them, and not about learning! Celia had those light young feminine tastes which grave and weather-worn gentlemen sometimes prefer in a wife; but happily Mr Casaubon’s bias had been different, for he would have had no chance with Celia.

He looked down and saw a piece of chocolate being offered to him. Brooke’s delicate hand was mere inches from his mouth. Was he supposed to take it from her hand with his or simply… bite it? He opted for biting, and as he took the sweet chocolate into his mouth, his lips grazed her fingers, and he heard her gasp softly beside him. But not in a bad way. His heart rate kicked up, and as he slowly finished chewing, he reached up, took her hand, and brought her fingers close to his lips. He swallowed and then kissed her fingertips – licking the spot where there was still a little chocolate – and heard Brooke moan. Sexiest sound ever.

The way I love Holly frightens the fuck outta me my love for her runs deeper than any ocean and higher than any mountain. There is no me without her. She is my beginning and could very easily be my ending.

If she had had the money, she would have put herself through enough plastic surgery to look respectable again. She didn't understand women, like Betsy, who had the money and didn't want to. For the same reason, she would never live in one of the outer boroughs or in the suburbs, no matter how much more space she could get for how much less money. It said something about you that you could not stay in Manhattan, that you valued a few extra square feet over the chance to be close to art, literature and history. The six tall tumblers in her kitchen cabinet had come from Steuben Glass and cost $345 for the set. The green silk dress she was wearing had come from Brooks Brothers and cost $225 off the rack.

Nellie the horse and her trips to town, or a cow named Molly Blue, or the Indian who came out of the woods. I wish you could have known Arleta’s grandma, Mabel. You would have loved her. She was born well over one hundred years ago on a little farm in Michigan. What a long, long time ago! Is it hard to imagine anyone that old ever being a little girl? But of course she was, and she remembered very well. Arleta never saw the little log house where Grandma Mabel was born, but she could imagine how it looked. It had one big room that was warmed by a fireplace and a big cookstove. Her brothers slept in a loft overhead, and Mabel slept in a trundle bed beside her parents’ bed. (A trundle bed is a little cot that slides under a bigger bed during the day.) The cabin sat in a small clearing in the woods, and even though there were no neighbors close by, the family felt safe and protected in its little home. By the time Mabel was ready to go to school, the log cabin had been replaced by the big farmhouse that still stood two generations later when Arleta was a little girl. Arleta’s trips to Grandma Mabel’s old home were so much fun. She explored from the attic to the root cellar, from the barn to the meadow brook. Everywhere she looked, she found a story! The attic was dusty and creaky, but what marvelous things it contained: a funny-looking wire thing that turned out to be something to wear, the button basket—a

While these chants were chilling, something else scared me even more. It wasn’t what was there that frightened me, but what wasn’t there. No KKK robes, Nazi-inspired uniforms, or white supremacist paraphernalia were evident. No T-shirts with neo-Nazi slogans were to be seen. Most of the marchers wore neatly pressed khaki pants and smart-looking shirts. Had they not carried flags with swastika-like and white supremacist symbols or the Confederate “stars and bars” and raised their arms in a Nazi-like salute, they might have looked as though they had just walked out of a J.Crew or Brooks Brothers catalog.

While the family and servants gathered reverently to view the magnificent creation, Kathleen took West’s arm and tugged him out of the room. “Something is going on here,” she said. “I want to know the real reason why the earl has invited Mr. Winterborne.” They stopped in the space beneath the grand staircase, behind the tree. “Can’t he show hospitality to a friend without an ulterior motive?” West parried. She shook her head. “Everything your brother does has an ulterior motive. Why has he invited Mr. Winterborne?” “Winterborne has his finger in many pies. I believe Devon hopes to benefit from his advice, and at some future date enter into a business deal with him.” That sounded reasonable enough. But her intuition still warned that there was something fishy about the situation. “How did they become acquainted?” “About three years ago, Winterborne was nominated for membership at two different London clubs, but was rejected by both of them. Winterborne is a commoner, his father was a Welsh grocer. So after hearing the sniggering about how Winterborne had been refused, Devon arranged to have our club, Brabbler’s, offer a membership to him. And Winterborne never forgets a favor.” “Brabbler’s?” Kathleen repeated. “What an odd name.” “It’s the word for a fellow who tends to argue over trifles.” West looked down and rubbed at a sticky spot of sap on the heel of his hand. “Brabbler’s is a second-tier club for those who aren’t allowed into White’s or Brooks’s, but it includes some of the most successful and clever men in London.” “Such as Mr. Winterborne.” “Just so.

The Dig Site Matrouh Governorate, Egypt From the ages of eight to fourteen, Brook rarely saw her father. He made brief stopovers in the States two or three times a year, week-long whirlwind affairs with much of the time spent with Brook's mother in the bedroom, and a little with Brook and her little brother. Mostly, Brook remembered his non-stop patter during these times; excited recounts of the civilizations he'd discovered, the walls and chambers and treasures; gold and riches from the northern plains of Turkey to the Andes in Peru. Both Brook and her mother found themselves thoroughly caught up in the excitement of having Cale home, as well as the thrill of his work and the energy he brought into their humble home in the suburbs of the nation's capital. He told stories—tall tales, it turned out—about the travels of the ancients

Listen, I don’t know why you two torture yourselves, but clearly, you’re into each other. So what if Madden has a problem with it? He’ll get over it eventually. He’s your brother, for fuck’s sake.

[He motions to what looks like a sharpened steel paddle at his side.] “Pouwhenua”—got it from a Maori brother who used to play for the All Blacks before the war. Bad motherfuckers, the Maori. That battle at One Tree Hill, five hundred of them versus half of reanimated Auckland.

The Reverend Brook-Edward Bridges is the sort of man I cannot help but despise,” she rejoined sharply. “He believes the world exists to sustain his follies, and ask nothing of him in return. My brother was spoilt as a youth, and age has merely made him indolent. He sponges on my mother and my husband for the relief of his debts, and is foolish enough to believe that he might prevail upon an excellent woman to make his fortune in marriage. Yes, Jane, I am severe upon him—for he has disappointed me these fifteen years at least.

saccheggiato il reparto maschile di Brooks Brothers, passato in rassegna gli scaffali di Schwarz, Music Inn e Paragon Sports.

Grey: I need you to pick up my new suit from Brooks Brothers on 6th. Jenny had something come up. Me: New phone, who dis? Grey: Do you get beat up a lot?

When she heard the news, she said: “Well, if this man is really Mrs. Bean’s brother, it’s awful hard on the Beans, but we’ve got no right to interfere. Because the money really belongs to him. I wish we knew.

Love happens. It’s what you do with it that matters. If you embrace it, it will give you a joy you have never known was possible. If you ignore it, it has the power to haunt you.

Well kids, I am heading out. I have a hot date with brand new pussy tonight,” Josh announced without a care in the world.

Are we seriously reading a book together?” I asked in disbelief. “Yep. I need to see what all the fuss is about with these so-called book boyfriends you have. You never know, I might find myself a book girlfriend if I’m lucky.” He winked and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Fuck, Team Kyden, its all about Team Joslyn. That shit needs to be on a shirt, or something.

These bastards see their dogs as warriors, gladiators who, with every win, increase their standing in the community. But, the more realistic reason is money.

one look his fears of a dog-fighting ring were valid. Blood was spattered around a makeshift wooden ring. Chains were piled up in a corner. He could see where the cages had been placed in the grass by the indents, but they were gone now. A dead cat was dangling from a tree branch.

Have you ever had one of those I-wish-that-were-me moments? A moment when you wished you could swap bodies with someone? Yeah? That’s exactly how I felt right at that moment.

Do you know how hard it was to talk with her and not scream “he is going to propose?” It was like giving me chocolate and telling me to just look at it. Now

Another analogy. The idea of length contraction and time dilation may be easier to accept when you consider that objects contract and processes slow down when cooled. The only difference between the effect of temperature and the effect of motion is the mechanism: In a cooler chest it is the slowing down of atomic motion that affects rates and interatomic distances, while in moving objects it is the extra distance through which fields must propogate. Would we think it paradoxical if a twin was placed in a cold chamber for 50 years and then emerged to find that her brother was old and she was young? No, we would not; in fact there are firms that offer to preserve people by freezing them. Why then should we not accept that motion can have a similar effect on chemical and physical processes? As Lorentz himself said, We may, I think, even go so far as to say that...the conclusion is no less legitimate than the inferences concerning the dilation by heat. - H. Lorentz

Are you well, my lord?” He noticed the caution in her words. Meeting her clear emerald gaze, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. He reached out and tapped her chin with his finger—a brotherly gesture he’d been performing for most of her life—and said wryly, “No need to walk on egg-shells, Minx. I’m fine.” He redirected his gaze to some faraway point and continued, “It feels good to be back in London…away from Essex and all that comes with it.” He returned his attention to her. “And with you about to have your first season”—his half smile turned into a rakish grin—“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else…I’m eager for the fireworks to begin.” Alex didn’t miss the change in topic. She shook her head as though rejecting the whole idea of a season and turned a sympathetic look on Gavin. “My lord…if you should ever need to talk…about anything…I am here…I hope you know that.” Gavin’s grin disappeared, replaced by firm lips set in a determined line. His next words came out in a manner that brooked no rebuttal. “Once again, I’m fine, Alex. Thank you for your offer, but I assure you that there’s no need for it. Now, if you don’t mind…I have an important meeting for which I really shouldn’t be late.” With a short bow he was gone, leaving Alex with the distinct impression that she’d been summarily dismissed. And Alexandra Stafford did not like being dismissed.

Italian or Irish or Nigerian American. We wore Brooks Brothers or Izod or Polo or Levi’s, we opened our mouth and said one word about abortion or taxes or God or radical Islam or military service or Bush or Obama or Fox or NPR or we said we were from Mississippi or North Dakota or the West Village or Boulder and within the time it took to say “box” we were in one. We’d somehow gotten to be straight white males or gay African American females first, and human beings second, and if you claimed the eschewment of label you’d be mocked, dismissed, labeled as a naive rube from beyond the Adirondacks. “How

You are what I want, Ashy, and I know I’m what you want. I feel it in the lightness of your touch. I see it in the intimacy of your gaze, and I taste it in the sweetness of your kiss. My role as a man is to give my woman what she has always wanted. I will give you your happily-ever-after, Ashy, and it will be my greatest accomplishment. Your bruises and hurt are mine to heal, and I will protect you for the rest of my life. You have my word. You’re mine, Ashy, and what’s mine is mine forever.

her family than himself. No wonder her brother trusted Luke. He pulled into traffic and headed back up Route 676. On the Schuylkill Expressway, bumper-to-bumper traffic slowed their trip home, but once they hit the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the traffic thinned. Brooke’s stomach rumbled as the car exited the

And you think that’s going to work?“ Dink, dink, dink, dink. “Oh, shut up.” Gemma turned and went into the bathroom as he tried not to gloat. “What?” Dink. “I didn’t say a thing.” Dink. And with that, he failed to not gloat.

For, know all power, all influence that is of a creative nature is of the Father-God a manifestation. Not as an individual, not as a personality, but as good, as love, as law, as longsuffering, as patience, as brotherly love, as kindness, as gentleness; yet in all the beauties of nature--in the blush of the rose, in the baby's smile, in the song of the bird, in the ripple of the brook, in the wind, in the wave, in all of those influences or forces that bring to His creatures a consciousness of Life itself and its awareness and its activity in a material plane.

Charles ventured into the room — and saw then that Gareth was not alone.  Cradled in his left arm and smiling adoringly up at him was the little girl he'd glimpsed last night, the little girl that he, Charles, had sired — and who would grow up calling Gareth "Papa" instead of him. Dear God.  Dear God, above.  His gaze flashed to the door. Gareth noted the direction of his suddenly unsure gaze. "Want to hold her?" Charles swallowed, hard.  "I . . . I am not sure." "Charlotte," murmured Gareth, and Charles saw his own uncertainty reflected in his brother's eyes.  "Charlotte, this is … this is, uh … your uncle, Charles." The child turned her guileless blue gaze on Charles.  The smile that dimpled her cheeks abruptly faded. "Here."  Gareth stood up and walked around the table, the little girl securely in his arms.  "Say hello." After all, if things had gone differently, she'd have been yours. Charles tensed as his brother placed the toddler in his lap.  He looked down into eyes as blue, at hair as blond, as his own, and was assailed by a hundred different emotions, none of which he could name, none of which he could, in his current state of mind, of heart, understand.  Panic assailed him.  This was too much.  Too fast.  Too unexpected, and too damned awkward.  He looked helplessly up at Gareth, and in that moment Charlotte, unsure, and now fearful, screwed up her face and began to cry.  Struggling in Charles's arms, she reached for Gareth in a desperate plea to be rescued by the only man she would ever know as her father. Gareth all but grabbed the child from him, making a lame and embarrassed comment about "having to get used to them first," while Charles retreated, stiff-backed, rejected, and confused. "Uncle," he murmured, softly. "Yes, and that is how it must remain," Gareth said, with a level look that brooked no dispute.  "I am her father, Charles.  Not you." "Yes … yes, you are." His heartbeat was returning to normal, but it was too painful to look at the toddler, this solid and unmistakable evidence of a "mistake" that he had once made, a mistake that his own brother had taken it upon himself to fix.  In time, maybe he would come to regard little Charlotte with affection.  With love.  He certainly hoped so.  But right now … right now, his heart was too raw, his guilt too great.  It had been like holding a stranger's child, not his own flesh and blood.  She might look like him, but the baby was Gareth's, not his.  She would always be Gareth's. What