Chit Quotes

The silence between us stretched out, but it wasn't awkward. Sometimes there are people you can be quiet with, and you never feel the need to fill the gap with meaningless chit-chat. I'd only become that close to a couple people in my hometown, and I'd always thought it took years. Lucas and I were already there.

He did not blame them. Because in truth, that's what he did, what he was. Seduce and dominate. Charm and manipulate. A user of women. How they would scoff, Rothbury mused bitterly, if they knew that he was secretly in love with the silly little chit, spectacles and all.

I poo poo the chit.' The attendant looked stunned. 'You cannot poo-poo the chit!' I do.' Kate said solemnly. 'I do poo-poo.' We'll walk.

They were men, and free. I was a woman, and a slave. And that’s a chasm no amount of sentimental chit-chat about shared imprisonment should be allowed to obscure.

There was no time for chit-chat when there were chocolate chip pancakes to be eaten.

She'd always pitied the plight of genies until once when she'd freed one from a young beserker. Instead of thanks, the chit had laid into her, screaming, "To each her own, lightening whore!

Without space, there could not have been God. Likewise, without chit the other three elements, manas, buddhi and ahankar cannot manifest.

One of my sober friends once said, ‘Feelings are like children. You don’t want them driving the car, but you shouldn’t stuff them in the boot either.’ Let them chit-chatter away in the back, and get on with your life. Amazing, right?

If we can use an H-bomb--and as you said it's no checker game; it's real, it's war and nobody is fooling around--isn't it sort of ridiculous to go crawling around in the weeds, throwing knives and maybe getting yourself killed . . . and even losing the war . . . when you've got a real weapon you can use to win? What's the point in a whole lot of men risking their lives with obsolete weapons when one professor type can do so much more just by pushing a button?' Zim didn't answer at once, which wasn't like him at all. Then he said softly, 'Are you happy in the Infantry, Hendrick? You can resign, you know.' Hendrick muttered something; Zim said, 'Speak up!' I'm not itching to resign, sir. I'm going to sweat out my term.' I see. Well, the question you asked is one that a sergeant isn't really qualified to answer . . . and one that you shouldn't ask me. You're supposed to know the answer before you join up. Or you should. Did your school have a course in History and Moral Philosophy?' What? Sure--yes, sir.' Then you've heard the answer. But I'll give you my own--unofficial--views on it. If you wanted to teach a baby a lesson, would you cuts its head off?' Why . . . no, sir!' Of course not. You'd paddle it. There can be circumstances when it's just as foolish to hit an enemy with an H-Bomb as it would be to spank a baby with an ax. War is not violence and killing, pure and simple; war is controlled violence, for a purpose. The purpose of war is to support your government's decisions by force. The purpose is never to kill the enemy just to be killing him . . . but to make him do what you want him to do. Not killing . . . but controlled and purposeful violence. But it's not your business or mine to decide the purpose of the control. It's never a soldier's business to decide when or where or how--or why--he fights; that belongs to the statesmen and the generals. The statesmen decide why and how much; the generals take it from there and tell us where and when and how. We supply the violence; other people--"older and wiser heads," as they say--supply the control. Which is as it should be. That's the best answer I can give you. If it doesn't satisfy you, I'll get you a chit to go talk to the regimental commander. If he can't convince you--then go home and be a civilian! Because in that case you will certainly never make a soldier.

Give space to your thoughts, clear the noise in your head, chit-chat with your inner critic, decide and move on.

I always feel myself being thrust back into loneliness when someone tells me it's cold on a hot day. It isn't good to talk so much about the weather — weather is a highly personal matter, and communication on the subject inevitably fails.

Sure. I'll make small talk. Chit chat. Discuss the ins and outs of a "typical" day. Pass the time lightly. Say tiny things. I'm happy to tread surfaces with a smile, and will. Sometimes. Yet- when I look at you, I know there are layers. Dimensions. Collections of ancient wisdom. Roads. Stories on stories on stories. Core needs. There is humanness. This is where I light up. This is where I thrive. You can't be caged in a pool for long. Not when you're someone who wants oceans.

It’s nice to hear your voice…?” The statement came out sounding like a question, as though I were playing jeopardy and I’d chosen my category- ‘I’ll take ‘Charming Chit Chat’ for $200, Alex’ and behind the $200 read: ‘This is what you say to the hot guy- you abandoned- when he returns after you inexplicably leave him and his private jet in Las Vegas after having amazing and multiple occurrences of the hot sex.

I don't know what you believe in. I believe we just stop. Because if we move on to an afterlife, any kind of afterlife, that means there will be other people there. I'm tired of the chit chat. Oh, that is a handsome boy. He takes after his grandfather. Did they change the breakfast again? It tastes different to me. For Eternity? No thanks.

At cocktail parties, I played the part of a successful businessman's wife to perfection. I smiled, I made polite chit-chat, and I dressed the part. Denial and rationalization were two of my most effective tools in working my way through our social obligations. I believed that playing the roles of wife and mother were the least I could do to help support Tom's career. During the day, I was a puzzle with innumerable pieces. One piece made my family a nourishing breakfast. Another piece ferried the kids to school and to soccer practice. A third piece managed to trip to the grocery store. There was also a piece that wanted to sleep for eighteen hours a day and the piece that woke up shaking from yet another nightmare. And there was the piece that attended business functions and actually fooled people into thinking I might have something constructive to offer. I was a circus performer traversing the tightwire, and I could fall off into a vortex devoid of reality at any moment. There was, and had been for a very long time, an intense sense of despair. A self-deprecating voice inside told me I had no chance of getting better. I lived in an emotional black hole. p20-21, talking about dissociative identity disorder (formerly multiple personality disorder).

When we are happy, we don’t know that we are happy, because happiness requires childlike innocence. When a child is happy, he doesn’t know that he is happy. He doesn’t formulate it, he simply enjoys it.

I normally fuck first, dine later. I usually prefer the dining to be done alone without all the awkward chit-chat.

Our Lady of Cheribim Chit-Chat.

Germany:We've called this conference to solve the world's problems, not to fight about the problems of our past. And since I'm the only country who seems to know how to run a meeting we'll follow my rules from here on out. Eight minutes each for speeches, no chit chat about side deals and absolutely no going over the time limit. Now if you want to go, make sure you're prepared and raise your hand but do so in a way that does not mock any salute of my country's past.

I really just want someone to come over and brush my hair or let me cry in their lap while they pet my head and tell me I'll be okay." And I cried harder because I felt so ashamed to want that from a friend—from someone who was not a romantic partner or a parent⁠—because I didn't have either right now but I still wanted it. We section off physical comfort and intimacy so heavily. We reserve it for partners only, and platonic friends can only chit-chat and that's it. How can you tell people to be okay with being single while also telling them they can only get the basic human needs of physical touch from not being single?

Indeed, for my own part, though I have been repeatedly told by persons for whom I have the greatest respect, that Miss Brown is an insignificant chit, and Mrs. White has nothing but her petit minois chiffonne, and Mrs. Black has not a word to say for herself; yet I know that I have had the most delightful conversations with Mrs. Black (of course, my dear Madam, they are inviolable): I see all the men in a cluster round Mrs. White's chair: all the young fellows battling to dance with Miss Brown; and so I am tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to a woman.

The question is, Miss Finch . . . what are you doing in this village?” “I’ve been trying to explain it to you. We have a community of ladies here in Spindle Cove, and we support one another with friendship, intellectual stimulation, and healthful living.” “No, no. I can see how this might appeal to a mousy, awkward chit with no prospects for something better. But what are you doing here?” Perplexed, she turned her gloved hands palms-up. “Living happily.” “Really,” he said, giving her a skeptical look. Even his horse snorted in seeming disbelief. “A woman like you.” She bristled. Just what kind of woman did he think she was? “If you think yourself content with no man in your life, Miss Finch, that only proves one thing.” In a swift motion, he pulled himself into the saddle. His next words were spoken down at her, making her feel small and patronized. “You’ve been meeting all the wrong men.

They all fuss about me so,” she said. “They rub it in that I’m an old woman.” “And you don’t feel like one.” “No, I don’t, Jane. In spite of all my aches and pains–and I’ve got plenty. Inside I go on feeling just like a chit like Gina. Perhaps everyone does. The glass shows them how old they are and they just don’t believe it.

I started worrying that maybe you only get a certain number of prayers answered in you lifetime and I'm burning through mine too fast. I'd hate to find out later on that I used up all my chits, because I've been acting like I've got an unlimited supply.

You are my flesh and blood and I have always doted on you, but right now I would have to say you deserve a haughty, ruined chit for your own and she deserves you.

Don’t, Jo. It’s so boyish!” “That’s why I do it.” “I detest rude, unladylike girls!” “I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!

I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!

The silence between us stretched out, but it wasn’t awkward. Sometimes there are people you can be quiet with, and you never feel the need to fill the gap with meaningless chit-chat.

Listen you..you.."he sputtered. "You what ? You've already used hellion,draft girl and missy' .i can think of several more degradation,but then again im not the one trying so hard to be intimidating." "How about you,maddending,foolish,moronic little chit ?" "Much better !" she applauded.

When Charles Darwin was trying to decide whether he should propose to his cousin Emma Wedgwood, he got out a pencil and paper and weighed every possible consequence. In favor of marriage he listed children, companionship, and the 'charms of music and female chit-chat.' Against marriage he listed the 'terrible loss of time,' lack of freedom to go where he wished, the burden of visiting relatives, the expense and anxiety provoked by children, the concern that 'perhaps my wife won't like London,' and having less money to spend on books. Weighing one column against the other produced a narrow margin of victory, and at the bottom Darwin scrawled, 'Marry—Marry—Marry Q.E.D.' Quod erat demonstrandum, the mathematical sign-off that Darwin himself restated in English: 'It being proved necessary to Marry.

Naomi looked around the room, then down at the cup. Then back around the room. Then again at the cup. No. Way. “Hello?” “Hello! Is this how you greet all new acquaintances? Trap them, maim them, and then chit chat?

Then she jerked back with a siren's smile that made his confidence falter. "Well." She tapped her chin. "That was a decent kiss, all things being equal." She pressed her hand to her chest. "My heart is, if not quite racing, then heading into a quick walk. But I need a thermometer to determine if and how high my body heated. I shall just go--" "Don't you dare." He caught her by the arm as she was on the verge of fleeing. "You know bloody well that you responded to that kiss." With a suspicious glee in her eyes, she tugged her arm from his grip. "I'm not saying I didn't respond-- just that I didn't respond to any overwhelming degree. But it was a good kiss, I suppose. Better than some, not as good as others." "What the hell do you mean? How many chaps have you kissed in the last nine years, anyway?" "No more than you've kissed women, I should imagine." "My God." "But don't worry-- I don't think the average woman would complain about your kissing. You're perfectly competent." Competent? Bloody insolent chit. Even knowing she was trying to provoke him didn't ease his wounded pride. "Perhaps we should try again." -Giles and Minerva

What more does one need than what is offered by the present moment? Once you have learnt how to dissolve in the present moment, and you are able to enjoy it, you will have no problem in disregarding the empty chit-chat of the Ego, the mind!

… In 1885, when he turned twenty-five, he let out the word that he was ready to settle down with the right girl. The matrons heaved a collective sigh of relief. How wonderful. The boy actually understood his duties to God and country. He had no intention of marrying, of course, until he was at least forty-five – a society that so worshiped the infernal institution of marriage deserved to be misled. Let them try to matchmake. He did say the right girl, didn’t he? The right girl wouldn’t come along for twenty years, and she’d be a naive, plump-chested chit of seventeen who worshiped the ground on which he trod. Little could he guess that at twenty-eight he would marry, out of the blue, a lady who was quite some years removed from seventeen, neither naive nor plump-chested, and who examined the ground on which he trod with a most suspicious eye, seeing villany in everything he said and did. Her name was Louisa Cantwell, and she would be his undoing.

And thus was born The Seal Cove Theoretical Society, devoted to chit-chat, observation, current events, gossip, philosophical debate, and the occasional profound speculation, and bound together by friendship and forgiveness, which we all need, even if we deny it.

Are you carrying gold?" I asked sweetly. He frowned. "No? Silver? Lead? Copper?" I made big, innocent eyes at him. "A girl out in the brush doesn't need credit chits, Mr. House Gray. What do you have in your pockets that's worth my hospitality?" One of the Neds coughed, and I realised that could have been taken in a very different manner. Abraham flashed me a wicked smile. "Don't flatter yourself," I said before he opened his mouth.

Birdle Burble I went out of mind and then came to my senses By meeting a magpie who mixed up his tenses, Who muddled distinctions of nouns and of verbs, And insisted that logic is bad for the birds. With a poo-wee cluck and a chit, chit-chit; The grammar and meaning don't matter a bit. The stars in their courses have no destination; The train of events will arrive at no station; The inmost and ultimate Self of us all Is dancing on nothing and having a ball. So with a chat for chit and with tat for tit, This will be that, and that will be It! (poem for James Broughton)

Their conversations were often charged with an excitement out of proportion to what they talked about... Their words seemed to glimmer in the air between them, dangerous metallic threads that quickly connected both of them to books and ideas, to language itself. The jailer told Teza about the daring subject matter of the famous writer Ju's recent novel, in which a passionate young man falls in love with an older woman, but the story, as he was telling it, became a metaphor for their own deepening and forbidden association....Teza refused to act like a prisoner, which freed Chit Naing from acting like a jailer.

Like all bores, he preferred his own thoughts and opinions to the exclusion of others

Madame, may I see your dog’s chit, please,

Nu suntem niciodată chit cu cei faţă de care avem obligaţii...,căci, dacă nu le mai datorăm bani, le datorăm totuşi recunoştinţă.

But liking someone whose species you dislike is something--worth more than currency on a chit.

What can I do for you, Mother?" he asked. "And don't say 'Dance with Hermione Smythe-Smith.' Last time I did that I nearly lost three toes in the process." "I wasn't going to ask anything of the sort," Violet replied. "I was going to ask you to dance with Prudence Featherington." "Have Mercy, Mother," he moaned. "She's even worse." "I'm not asking you to marry the chit," she said. "Just dance with her." Benedict fought a groan. Prudence Featherington, while essentially a nice person, had a brain the size of a pea and a laugh so grating he'd seen grown men flee with their hands over their ears. "I'll tell you what," he wheedled. "I'll dance with Penelope Featherington if you keep Prudence at bay." "That'll do," his mother said with a satisfied nod, leaving Benedict with the sinking sensation that she'd wanted him to dance with Penelope all along. "She's over there by the lemonade table," Violet said, "dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing.The color is good for her,but someone really must take her mother in hand next time they venture out to the dressmaker. A more unfortunate costume,I can't imagine." "You obviously haven't seen the mermaid," Benedict murmured. She swatted him lightly on the arm. "No poking fun at the guests." "But they make it so easy.

In spite of all my aches and pains, and I've got plenty. Inside I go on feeling just a chit like Gina. Perhaps everyone does. The glass shows them how old they are and they just don't believe it. It seems only a few months ago that we were at Florence. Do you remember Fräulein Schweich and her boots?” The two elderly women laughed together at events that had happened nearly half a century ago.

Somewhere around chapter seven she had started wondering if Lucinda, the annoyingly incompetent heroine of The Black Duke, truly deserved to live. The chit was forever whining about her life, while refusing to do anything about it.

So, Lucile thinks, Gabrielle has the prospect of escape; but in her apartment at the rue des Cordeliers, she sits still and silent, in the conscious postures of pregnant women. Sometimes she cries; this chit Louise Gély trips down the stairs to join her in a few sniffles. Gabrielle is crying for her marriage, her soul and her king; Louise is crying, she supposes, for a broken doll or a kitten run over in the street. Can’t stand it, she thinks. Men are better company.

But Miss Ferguson preferred science over penmanship. Philosophy over etiquette. And, dear heavens preserve them all, mathematics over everything. Not simply numbering that could see a wife through her household accounts. Algebra. Geometry. Indecipherable equations made up of unrecognizable symbols that meant nothing to anyone but the chit herself. It was enough to give Miss Chase hives. The girl wasn’t even saved by having any proper feminine skills. She could not tat or sing or draw. Her needlework was execrable, and her Italian worse. In fact, her only skills were completely unacceptable, as no one wanted a wife who could speak German, discuss physics, or bring down more pheasant than her husband.

Find hard to talk to stranger. Terrible at chit-chat. Think people look at me funny then I start panic think have to be clever all of time. They not understand I artist, not entertainer! Magic of Bigfoot what happen when people not looking.

What, sir, would you think of a member of the Weaker Sex who assumed the guise of a man, and left the home of her natural protector by way of the window?" "I should assume," replied Sir Richard, "that she had strong reasons for acting with such resolution." "She did not wish to marry me," said Mr. Griffin gloomily. "Oh!" said Sir Richard. "Well, I'm sure I can't see why she should be so set against me, but that's not it, sir. The thing is that here's my mother determined to find her, and to make her marry me, and so hush up the scandal. But I don't like it above half. If she dislikes the notion so much, I don't think I ought to marry her, do you?" "Emphatically not!" "I must say I am very glad to hear you say that, Sir Richard!" said Mr. Griffin, much cheered. "For you must know that my mother has been telling me ever since yesterday that I must marry her now, to save her name. But I think she would very likely make me uncomfortable, and nothing could make up for that, in my opinion." "A lady capable of escaping out of a window in the guise of a a man would quite certainly make you more than uncomfortable," said Sir Richard. "Yes, though she's only a chit of a girl, you know. In fact, she is not yet out. I am very happy to have had the benefit of the opinion of a Man of the World. I feel that I can rely on your judgment." "On my judgment, you might, but in nothing else, I assure you," said Sir Richard. "You know nothing of me, after all. How do you know that I am not now concealing your cousin from you?" "Ha-ha! Very good, upon my word! Very good, indeed!" said Mr. Griffin, saluting a jest of the first water.

Everyone here is Absolute Reality, Pure Awareness. This is your real nature. Right now, not some time in the future. Not when you get enlightened. Not when you search for the answers. But right this minute. This is what you are. Why will you not accept it? When you think about yourself, do you think you're a puny human that has to struggle for existence and fight for survival? As long as you believe this, that's the way it's going to be for you. But as soon as you accept the truth about yourself, that you are a delight, Divine Sat-Chit-Ananda, You will be free. You simply have to accept this. There are no rituals you have to go through. There are no prayers you have to chant. You simply have to awaken to your true nature, Pure Awareness, Nirvana, Bliss, Consciousness. This is what you are right at this moment.

about to make, but the idea had faded. Not for the first time that day, she wished the hall outside her door hadn’t become the official gathering place for coworkers in search of gossip and idle chit chat. It wasn’t like her to lose focus so easily. Karen couldn’t afford to slow down,

Dharma (function or properties) of the mind, dharma of the intellect, dharma of the chit, dharma of the ego – when all these dharma and the dharma of the Self (Soul) come into their own dharma (functions); that is known as Gnan (Knowledge of Self). And if we (self) insist upon any one’s dharma; it becomes ignorance (agnan).

Whenever Beatrice was forced into company, she’s often found herself overwhelmed by the sudden desperate urge to flee. She felt herself drowning in chit-chat groups and teacups, hungry to gulp down the air of solitude. We all think our own problems are uniquely difficult. But the truth is. Everyone struggles. With something. That is. Unbearable. To them.

Happiness comes to us by Itself, and It envelops our whole being when the mind becomes humble and silent, as it has understood its inability to encounter the Unknown.

What in Sanskrit is called Sat-Chit-Ananda - The Blissful Intelligence of the Universe or in China, The Eternal Tao. In Western New-Age terms, you would talk about trusting Life or The Universe. When you receive support from The Blissful Intelligence of the Universe, you are able to use your intuition as a guidance system to navigate your life and achieve your goals.

I suppose it seems ignoble to you that a great oak of a man should go about the world like a blind man about an empty house merely because a chit of a girl has been withdrawn from it. No, no, you cannot understand this, my adored one, but I understand and grow pale...You will laugh at me, but I think he goes about the hemispheres to pass the time between now and his old age.

Chit’s tendencies can become pure [transparent] in front of God, but people don’t have this knowhow. The easiest solution to purify chit’s tendencies is to associate with a person who has the least amount of desires and the ultimate solution to make them pure is the inner visual contemplation (niddidhyasan) of the Vitarag (the enlightened ones who are free of all attachments).

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

I frowned. “I didn’t know Clovians were allowed to have more than one wife.” “We aren’t typical Clovians,” said the count. You don’t say. “Care to elaborate?” I asked. “No.” Silver light glinted in his eyes. Despite everything else I knew about him, his eyes were a marvel—large, mournful, pale light framed by darkness. “Is Sourial married?” I asked. “Why are you asking about him?” A blade of steel undercut in his tone. “Just making conversation.” “Sourial and I are unusual among our kind. We have no wives.” “Will he be at the party, too?” “Making conversation again, are you?” He murmured. “Oh yes. My people call it chit-chatting.” “It’s a terrible habit.” “Some day, Count Saklas, you are going to have fun. And it is going to blow your mind.” “I’d rather keep my mind intact.

The news that she had gone of course now spread rapidly, and by lunch time Riseholme had made up its mind what to do, and that was hermetically to close its lips for ever on the subject of Lucia. You might think what you pleased, for it was a free country, but silence was best. But this counsel of perfection was not easy to practice next day when the evening paper came. There, for all the world to read were two quite long paragraphs, in "Five o'clock Chit-Chat," over the renowned signature of Hermione, entirely about Lucia and 25 Brompton Square, and there for all the world to see was the reproduction of one of her most elegant photographs, in which she gazed dreamily outwards and a little upwards, with her fingers still pressed on the last chord of (probably) the Moonlight Sonata. . . . She had come up, so Hermione told countless readers, from her Elizabethan country seat at Riseholme (where she was a neighbour of Miss Olga Bracely) and was settling for the season in the beautiful little house in Brompton Square, which was the freehold property of her husband, and had just come to him on the death of his aunt. It was a veritable treasure house of exquisite furniture, with a charming music-room where Lucia had given Hermione a cup of tea from her marvellous Worcester tea service. . . . (At this point Daisy, whose hands were trembling with passion, exclaimed in a loud and injured voice, "The very day she arrived!") Mrs. Lucas (one of the Warwickshire Smythes by birth) was, as all the world knew, a most accomplished musician and Shakespearean scholar, and had made Riseholme a centre of culture and art. But nobody would suspect the blue stocking in the brilliant, beautiful and witty hostess whose presence would lend an added gaiety to the London season.

The whole world has been asking for the same these thousands of years. There is, again, the universal dissatisfaction. We make an ideal but we have rushed only half the way after it when we make a newer one. We struggle hard to attain to some goal and then discover we do not want it. This dissatisfaction we are having time after time, and what is there in the mind if there is to be only dissatisfaction? What is the meaning of this universal dissatisfaction? It is because freedom is every man's goal. He seeks it ever, his whole life is a struggle after it. The child rebels against law as soon as it is born. Its first utterance is a cry, a protest against the bondage in which it finds itself. This longing for freedom produces the idea of a Being who is absolutely free. The concept of God is a fundamental element in the human constitution. In the Vedanta, Sat-chit-ânanda (Existence-Knowledge-Bliss) is the highest concept of God possible to the mind. It is the essence of knowledge and is by its nature the essence of bliss. We have been stifling that inner voice long enough, seeking to follow law and quiet the human nature, but there is that human instinct to rebel against nature's laws. We may not understand what the meaning is, but there is that unconscious struggle of the human with the spiritual, of the lower with the higher mind, and the struggle attempts to preserve one's separate life, what we call our "individuality".

- The local prince had gotten a notion that the girl could spin straw into gold, the dwarf said. Brainless young idiot, but they’re all like that. If she could spin straw into gold, why was she living in a hovel? Anyway, Gramps said he’d do her spinning for her in return for part of the gold and her firstborn child. She agreed, but naturally when the baby was born she didn’t want to give him up. So Gramps agreed to a guessing game: if she could guess his name, she could keep the baby. Then he let her find out what his name was. She kept the baby and Gramps kept the gold, and everyone went home happy. - I think I’m beginning to get the idea, Cimorene said. It’s not just spinning straw into gold that’s a family tradition, is it? It’s the whole scheme. The dwarf nodded sadly. - Right the first time. Only I can never make it work properly. I can find plenty of girls who’re supposed to spin straw into gold, and most of them suggest the guessing game, but I’ve never had even one who managed to guess my name. - Oh, dear, said Cimorene. - I even changed my name legally, so it would be easier, the dwarf said sadly. Herman isn’t a difficult name to remember, is it? But no, the silly chits can’t do it. So I end up with the baby as well as the gold, and babies eat and cry and need clothes, and the gold runs out, and I have to find another girl to spin gold for, and it happens all over again, and I end up with another baby. It isn’t fair!

I can go an entire day without any socialisation, without a conversation with anyone. I wonder sometimes if I'm invisible. I feel like the old men and women who used to bother me by engaging in unnecessary chit-chat with the cashiers while I was stuck behind them, in a hurry, wanting to get on to the next place. When you don’t have a next place to go to, time slows down enormously. I feel myself noticing other people more, catching more eyes, or seeking out eye contact. I'm now ripe and ready for a conversation about anything with anyone; it would make my day if somebody would meet my eye, or if there was someone to talk to. But everyone is too busy, and that makes me feel invisible; and invisibility, contrary to what I believed before, lacks any sense of lightness and liberty. Instead it makes me feel heavy. And so I drag myself around, trying to convince myself that I don't feel heavy, invisible, bored and worthless, and that I am free. I do not convince myself well.

The whole right side of his face was smashed in, concave forehead and crushed cheekbone and one eye bugging precariously from a broken socket. He was purplish-black, and dirty white: Maggots seethed from every pore and crawled across him in excited wriggly piles, blowflies waving and blooming and wilting, the bits of bone they'd scraped clean glinting like tiny mosaic tiles. Scraps of jeans and a leather jacket clung to the sticky seething mess of his flesh. He was big, big shouldered, a good foot taller; chit-chitter, he went, even standing still.

Hero soon lost interest in the conversation, and left her chair to go and look out of the window into the busy street. When the Viscount at last rose to go she was employed in drawing faces on the dusty window-panes. 'If ever I saw such a troublesome chit!' exclaimed Sherry. 'Now look at your glove! What's more, I dare say Stoke don't like to have his windows looking like that.' Mr. Stoke, watching in some amusement her ladyship's conscience-stricken scrutiny of one dirty finger-tip, said that he thought her window sketches brightened the room, and earned a grateful smile.

We cannot make ourselves known to each other; we are not healed and forgiven by each other’s presence. With words as valueless as poker chips, we play games whose object it is to keep us from seeing each other’s cards. Chit-chat games in which “How are you?” means “Don’t tell me who you are,” and “I’m alone and scared” becomes “Fine thanks.” Games where the players create the illusion of being in the same room but where the reality of it is that each is alone inside a skin in that room, like bathyspheres at the bottom of the sea. Blind man’s buff games where everyone is blind.

Just imagine, that poor Swann who was so anxious that his Gilberte should be received by the Guermantes, how happy he would be if he could see his daughter become a Guermantes!” “Under another name, led to the altar as Mlle. de Forcheville, do you think he would be so happy after all?” “Ah, that is true. I had not thought of it. That is what makes it impossible for me to congratulate the little chit, the thought that she has had the heart to give up her father’s name, when he was so good to her.—Yes, you are right, when all is said and done, it is perhaps just as well that he knows nothing about it

You said, the other day, you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money.’ ‘So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are ; for, though we do have to work, we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.’ ‘Jo does use such slang words!’ observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle. ‘Don’t, Jo ; it’s so boyish!’ ‘That’s why I do it.’ ‘I detest rude, unladylike girls!’ ‘I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!

She enticed him. She intrigued him. By heaven, she entranced him. A woman, he thought again. Aidan hadn't been convinced, yet maybe Alec was right. Perhaps a woman was just what he needed. But he rather suspected this prickly chit wasn't what either of them had in mind. No, he strongly suspected, Miss Fionna Hawkes was not the kind of woman with whom one had a hot, torrid affair. Yet there was no denying that desire that scalded his veins like fire. He wanted her, the lovely Miss Fionna Hawkes. Around him. Beneath him. Atop him... he didn't care how. And that certainly shocked him, as much as he was sure it would shock the fetchingly lovely Miss Hawkes.

When Charles Darwin was trying to decide whether he should propose to his cousin Emma Wedgwood, he got out a pencil and paper and weighed every possible consequence. In favor of marriage he listed children, companionship, and the “charms of music & female chit-chat.” Against marriage he listed the “terrible loss of time,” lack of freedom to go where he wished, the burden of visiting relatives, the expense and anxiety provoked by children, the concern that “perhaps my wife won’t like London,” and having less money to spend on books. Weighing one column against the other produced a narrow margin of victory, and at the bottom Darwin scrawled, “Marry—Marry—Marry

Intellectual chit-chat is thus replaced by meaningful events that occur in the reality of the psyche. Hence, for the individual to enter seriously into the process of individuation in the way that has been outlined means a completely new and different orientation toward life. For scientists it also means a new and different scientific approach to outer facts. How this will work out in the field of human knowledge and in the social life of human beings cannot be predicted. But to me it seems certain that Jung’s discovery of the process of individuation is a fact that future generations will have to take into account if they want to avoid drifting into a stagnant or even regressive outlook.

And at the risk of sounding like Andy Rooney on Sixty Minutes, have you ever wondered why we say fiddle-faddle and not faddle- fiddle? Why is it ping-pong and pitter-patter rather than pong-ping and patter-pitter? Why dribs and drabs, rather than vice versa? Why can't a kitchen be span and spic? Whence riff-raff, mish-mash, flim-flam, chit-chat, tit for tat, knick-knack, zig-zag, sing-song, ding-dong, King Kong, criss-cross, shilly-shally, see-saw, hee-haw, flip-flop, hippity-hop, tick-tock, tic-tac-toe, eeny-meeny-miney-moe, bric-a-brac, clickety-clack, hickory-dickory-dock, kit and kaboodle, and bibbity-bobbity-boo? The answer is that the vowels for which the tongue is high and in the front always come before the vowels for which the tongue is low and in the back.

The kanchukas explain what happened to Shiva so that He became us. Since Shiva has five shaktis or powers—chit, ananda, iccha, jnana, kriya—it is reasonable to assume that the five kanchukas are limitations of each of the divine shaktis. It is easy to see that jnana shakti is limited by vidya kanchuka (divine knowledge/limited knowledge); iccha shakti is limited by raga kanchuka (completeness/desire); and kriya shakti is limited by kalā kanchuka (omnipotence/limited action). It is less obvious that Chit Shakti has to do with kāla or time, and ananda shakti has to do with space. However, Chit is pure, expanded Consciousness without thought-forms and time begins with thought-forms. And ananda, bliss, is the same as svatantrya, or freedom, and this is diminished by being closeted in a particular space.

Honestly, I’m kind of happy having permission to dive right into more interesting territory because I have a very real allergy to small talk. I don’t want to discuss jobs and the weather and how people’s commutes are. Introverts tend to hate chit-chat (it’s an awkward social interaction, but also meaningless and unrewarding), but this kind of enriching conversation that Mark is referring to is incredibly rare and hard to come by, something I had already found out on the streets of London. We’re told that we can engineer conversations to be more emotional and interesting by understanding that we all have a ‘Surface Self’ and a ‘Deep Self’. The Surface Self talks about the weather, facts, what we had for dinner, our plans for the weekend. The Deep Self talks about what these these actually mean to us and how we feel about them.

Come on, Gray,” another sailor called. “Just one toast.” Miss Turner raised her eyebrows and leaned into him. “Come on, Mr. Grayson. Just one little toast,” she taunted, in the breathy, seductive voice of a harlot. It was a voice his body knew well, and vital parts of him were quickly forming a response. Siren. “Very well.” He lifted his mug and his voice, all the while staring into her wide, glassy eyes. “To the most beautiful lady in the world, and the only woman in my life.” The little minx caught her breath. Gray relished the tense silence, allowing a broad grin to spread across his face. “To my sister, Isabel.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. The men groaned. “You’re no fun anymore, Gray,” O’Shea grumbled. “No, I’m not. I’ve gone respectable.” He tugged on Miss Turner’s elbow. “And good little governesses need to be in bed.” “Not so fast, if you please.” She jerked away from him and turned to face the assembled crew. “I haven’t made my toast yet. We ladies have our sweethearts too, you know.” Bawdy murmurs chased one another until a ripple of laughter caught them up. Gray stepped back, lifting his own mug to his lips. If the girl was determined to humiliate herself, who was he to stop her? Who was he, indeed? Swaying a little in her boots, she raised her tankard. “To Gervais. My only sweetheart, mon cher petit lapin.” My dear little rabbit? Gray sputtered into his rum. What a fanciful imagination the chit had. “My French painting master,” she continued, slurring her words, “and my tutor in the art of passion.” The men whooped and whistled. Gray plunked his mug on the crate and strode to her side. “All right, Miss Turner. Very amusing. That’s enough joking for one evening.” “Who’s joking?” she asked, lowering her mug to her lips and eyeing him saucily over the rim. “He loved me. Desperately.” “The French do everything desperately,” he muttered, beginning to feel a bit desperate himself. He knew she was spinning naïve schoolgirl tales, but the others didn’t. The mood of the whole group had altered, from one of good-natured merriment to one of lust-tinged anticipation. These were sailors, after all. Lonely, rummed-up, woman-starved, desperate men. And to an innocent girl, they could prove more dangerous than sharks. “He couldn’t have loved you too much, could he?” Gray grabbed her arm again. “He seems to have let you go.” “I suppose he did.” She sniffed, then flashed a coquettish smile at the men. “I suppose that means I need a new sweetheart.” That was it. This little scene was at its end. Gray crouched, grasping his wayward governess around the thighs, and then straightened his legs, tossing her over one shoulder. She let out a shriek, and he felt the dregs of her rum spill down the back of his coat. “Put me down, you brute!” She squirmed and pounded his back with her fists. Gray bound her legs to his chest with one arm and gave her a pat on that well-padded rump with the other. “Well, then,” he announced to the group, forcing a roguish grin, “we’ll be off to bed.” Cheers and coarse laughter followed them as Gray toted his wriggling quarry down the companionway stairs and into the ladies’ cabin. With another light smack to her bum that she probably couldn’t even feel through all those skirts and petticoats, Gray slid her from his shoulder and dropped her on her feet. She wobbled backward, and he caught her arm, reversing her momentum. Now she tripped toward him, flinging her arms around his neck and sagging against his chest. Gray just stood there, arms dangling at his sides. Oh, bloody hell.

So, these competitors . . . What do they hope to gain by interfering with your journey?” The instant the question left his mouth, he knew it was too direct. Nicole dropped her gaze and removed her hand from his arm. “With all due respect, Mr. Thornton . . .” Drat. They were back to Mr. Thornton again. “ . . . the details of the business I’m conducting for my father are not your concern.” “They are if they put you in danger. And what of the rest of my staff?” Darius snatched the napkin from his lap and threw it onto the table before lurching to his feet and pacing behind his chair. “I have a right to know if having you here is putting them at risk.” “No greater risk than they face from your exploding boilers!” Nicole shot from her seat, color running high in her cheeks. The audacity of the chit. “I take every precaution—” “As do I.” She glared at him. “The Wellborns are in no peril, especially if they keep my presence here a secret. It’s doubtful that Jenkins’s sons will find me, anyway. Heaven knows they aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer.” “As master of this house, it’s my duty to know the business of those under my roof.” He didn’t know what nonsense he was spouting now. He didn’t care. Nicole had let a vital piece of information slip in her anger, and he wasn’t about to let the argument cool long enough for her to notice her lapse. “Well, perhaps it’s time I collect the pay I’ve earned and leave you and your roof to your own devices.” Not on her life. The woman would be unprotected. Vulnerable. Easy prey for that Jenkins scum. But he couldn’t let her know his refusal was out of concern for her. She’d simply assure him she’d be fine and walk out the door. Darius crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at her. “You agreed to accept payment after a term of two weeks. I’ll not pay a cent before then. You owe me ten more days, Miss Greyson. Or do you plan to renege on our agreement?” Her hands fisted at her sides. “I never go back on my word.

I end up leaning on my sword for a moment, after exerting almost the last of my energy to take down one of the weakest Vampyres. Must be nice to be a Van Helsing, who can carry on idle chit-chat, while fighting like it’s a day job. “I told you to feed more often—” “I don’t want to hear ‘I told you so’s’ right now, you smug prat. I want you to kiss me,” I tell him. “I’ll fucking die first,” he assures me, quickly knocking the head off the Vampyre, who damn near crept up on me. After Vance does some fancy sword skills, clearly showing off, five Vampyres lose their head, leaving only two. I stick behind Vance, shamelessly using the sword-happy Van Helsing as a shield. “Should we discuss the ghost fanning herself right now?” I ask, as Emily slides up next to us, moving with us toward the remaining Vampyres. “Pssst,” the ghost stage whispers. “The threat’s over. You can be cool again.” I step out from behind Vance, adjust my jacket, and ignore the fucking ghost who thinks I have pride or something.

You will help, won’t you?” Dragging his gaze from the doorway, he shook his head as if to clear it. “Help?” he uttered dryly. “I’m tempted to offer her my very desirable hand in marriage! First I ought to know her name, though I’ll tell you she suddenly seems damned familiar.” “You will help?” “Didn’t I just say so? Who is that delectable creature?” “Elizabeth Cameron. She made her debut last-“ Alex stopped as Roddy’s smile turned harsh and sardonic. “Little Elizabeth Cameron,” he mused half to himself. “I should have guessed, of course. The chit set the city on its ear just after you left on your honeymoon trip, but she’s changed. Who would have guessed,” he continued in a more normal voice, “that fate would have seen fit to endow her with more looks than she had then.” “Roddy!” Alex said, sensing that his attitude toward helping was undergoing a change. “You already said you’d help. “You don’t need help, Alex,” he snickered. “You need a miracle.” “But-“ “Sorry. I’ve changed my mind.” “Is it the-the gossip about that old scandal that bothers you?” “In a sense.” Alexandra’s blue eyes began to spark with dangerous fire. “You’re a fine one to believe gossip, Roddy! You above all know it’s usually lies, because you’ve started your share of it!” “I didn’t say I believe it,” he drawled coolly. “In fact, I’d find it hard to believe that any man’s hands, including Thornton’s, have ever touched that porcelain skin of hers. However,” he said, abruptly closing the lid on his snuffbox and tucking it away, “society is not as discerning as I, or, in this instance, as kind. They will cut her dead tonight, never fear, and not even the influential Townsendes or my influential self could prevent it. Though I hate the thought of sinking any lower in your esteem than I can see I already have, I’m going to tell you an unlovely truth about myself, my sweet Alex,” he added with a sardonic grin. “Tonight, any unattached bachelor who’s foolish enough to show an interest in that girl is going to be the laughingstock of the Season, and I do not like being laughed at. I do not have the courage, which is why I am always the one to make jokes of others

Icelandic Language In this language, no industrial revolution; no pasteurized milk; no oxygen, no telephone; only sheep, fish, horses, water falling. The middle class can hardly speak it. In this language, no flush toilet; you stumble through dark and rain with a handful of rags. The door groans; the old smell comes up from under the earth to meet you. But this language believes in ghosts; chairs rock by themselves under the lamp; horses neigh inside an empty gully, nothing at the bottom but moonlight and black rocks. The woman with marble hands whispers this language to you in your sleep; faces come to the window and sing rhymes; old ladies wind long hair, hum, tat, fold jam inside pancakes. In this language, you can't chit-chat holding a highball in your hand, can't even be polite. Once the sentence starts its course, all your grief and failure come clear at last. Old inflections move from case to case, gender to gender, softening consonants, darkening vowels, till they sound like the sea moving icebergs back and forth in its mouth.

Your mom probably wouldn't be too happy if you're dating someone who quit school." I laugh. "Nope, don't think so. But I do think she likes you." "Why do you say that?" he says, cocking his head at me. "When I called her, she told me to tell you good morning. And then she told me you were 'a keeper.'" She also said he was hot, which is a ten and a half on the creep-o-meter. "She won't think that when I start failing out of all my classes. I've missed too much school to give a convincing performance in that aspect." "Maybe you and I could do an exchange," I say, cringing at how many different ways that could sound. "You mean besides swapping spit?" I'm hyperaware of the tickle in my stomach, but I say, "Gross! Did Rachel teach you that?" He nods, still grinning. "I laughed for days." "Anyway, since you're helping me try to change, I could help you with your schoolwork. You know, tutor you. We're in all the same classes together, and I could really use the volunteer hours for my college application." His smile disappears as if I had slapped him. "Galen, is something wrong?" He unclenches his jaw. "No." "It was just a suggestion. I don't have to tutor you. I mean, we'll already be spending all day together in school and then practicing at night. You'll probably get sick of me." I toss in a soft laugh to keep it chit-chatty, but my innards feel as though they're cartwheeling. "Not likely." Our eyes lock. Searching his expression, my breath catches as the setting sun makes his hair shine almost purple. But it's the way each dying ray draws out silver flecks in his eyes that makes me look away-and accidentally glance at his mouth. He leans in. I raise my chin, meeting his gaze. The sunset probably deepens the heat on my cheeks to a strawberry red, but he might not notice since he can't seem to decide if he wants to look at my eyes or my mouth. I can smell the salt on his skin, feel the warmth of his breath. He's so close, the wind wafts the same strand of my hair onto both our cheeks. So when he eases away, it's me who feels slapped. He uproots the hand he buried in the sand beside me. "It's getting dark. I should take you home," he says. "We can do this again-I mean, we can practice again-tomorrow after school.

After my classes at Brooklyn College I would sometimes leave the train at Bergen Street to visit my mother. If she knew I was coming she’d make soda bread so warm and delicious it melted in the mouth as fast as the butter she slathered on it. She made tea in a teapot and couldn’t help sniffing at the idea of tea bags. I told her tea bags were just a convenience for people with busy lives and she said no one is so busy they can’t take time to make a decent cup of tea and if you are that busy you don’t deserve a decent cup of tea for what is it all about anyway? Are we put into this world to be busy or to chat over a nice cup of tea?

We’ve all struggled with this: how to explain the desire to do something most people find pathological at best, selfish at worst, incomprehensible always. We sometimes describe it as a chit we were each handed at birth, a card to get out of jail free if one thinks of her life as jail. Or we talk about the horizontal light, which is how we refer to the light that sometimes replaces sunlight, the light we see for a brief moment virtually every day, the light that isn’t golden, but is as silver as the nacre inside a seashell, and comes not down from the heavens but from beyond the skyline, oozing and seeping until it lies over the day like an opalescent blanket inviting us to slide beneath it. There’s no telling when we’ll see the horizontal light; it appears at a different time every day, and most days we overlook it—it tends to come and go in an instant—and on other days we see and it lingers, but we manage to ignore it or, at least, after a while, to look away from it. But then there are the days we can’t look away. “Man, the horizontal light was really strong today,” one of us will say, and the other two will say, “But you resisted,” and the first one will say, “Yeah, well, today I resisted. Who knows about tomorrow?” and we all say, “Who ever knows about tomorrow?” and we refresh our drinks.

The girl really needed to let him go. This was the voyage Gray went respectable. And it was off to a very bad start. It was all her fault-this delicate wisp of a governess, with that porcelain complexion and her big, round eyes tilting up at him like Wedgwood teacups. She looked as if she might break if he breathed on her wrong, and those eyes keep beseeching him, imploring him, making demands. Please, rescue me from this pawing brute. Please, take me on your ship and away to Tortola. Please, strip me out of this revolting gown and initiate me in the pleasure of the flesh right here on the barstool. Well, innocent miss that she was, she might have lacked words to voice the third quite that way. But worldly man that he was, Gray cold interpret the silent petition quite clearly. He only wished he could discourage his body’s instinctive, affirmative response. He didn’t know what to do with the girl. He ought to do the respectable thing, seeing as how this voyage marked the beginning of his respectable career. But Miss Turner had him pegged. He was no kind of gentleman, and damned if he knew the respectable thing. Allowing a young, unmarried, winsome lady to travel unaccompanied probably wasn’t it. But then, if he refused her, who was to say she wouldn’t end up in an even worse situation? The chit couldn’t handle herself for five minutes in a tavern. Was he truly going to turn her loose on the Gravesend quay?

A young woman stepped in front of the dais and cleared her throat. She had reddish-brown hair that hung in loose waves down her back. Her figure was slender and regal, and Ian could have easily drowned in her emerald eyes. But what captured his attention the most was the way the lass carried herself—confident, yet seemingly unaware of her true beauty. She wore a black gown with hanging sleeves, and the embroidered petticoat under her skirts was lined in gray. With the added reticella lace collar and cuffs dyed with yellow starch, she looked as though she should have been at the English court rather than in the Scottish Highlands. “Pardon me, Ruairi. Ravenna wanted me to tell you that we’re taking little Mary to the beach. We won’t be long. We’ll be in the garden until the mounts are readied, if you need us.” When the woman’s eyes met Ian’s, something clicked in his mind. His face burned as he remembered. He shifted in the seat and pulled his tunic away from his chest. Why was the room suddenly hot? He felt like he was suffocating in the middle of the Sutherland great hall. God help him. This was the same young chit who had pined after him, following him around the castle and nipping at his heels like Angus, Ruairi’s black wolf. But like everything else that had transformed around here, so had she. She was no longer a girl but had become an enchantress—still young, but beautiful nevertheless. His musings were interrupted by a male voice. “Munro, ye do remember Lady Elizabeth, eh?” How could he forget the reason why he’d avoided Sutherland lands for the past three years?

Darius bit his tongue to keep from grinning as Nicole hoisted herself into the wagon. He managed to keep the smile contained until he stepped aside to allow Wellborn to assist his wife. The moment he turned his back on the little minx, however, he let it loose. She was making it awfully hard to keep up the disgruntled employer pretense that he’d started last night. He usually had no trouble being disgruntled around people, especially when he was trussed up in a jacket with ridiculously tight sleeves and a collar that made his neck itch. His bad temper was legendary in the Thornton household. ’Twas why his mother finally stopped forcing him to attend parties and why his father put him in charge of King Star’s accounting records. Yet a few teasing comments from Nicole had him mighty close to whistling, for pity’s sake. He actually liked the chit. Outside of his sister and mother, he couldn’t remember ever actually liking a woman before. Oh, he’d been attracted to several and even admired a few, but he’d always felt pressured to put on an act for them, to cover up his flaws so they wouldn’t see his true self. When the act became too tedious, he simply forfeited the chase. Without much regret. Nicole, however, had already seen his flaws. He’d paraded them before her since the moment she arrived for her interview. Yet instead of turning up her nose, she’d come to accept them as part of him, even teased him about them. It left him with no tedious act to maintain, only a growing hunger to learn more about her, to prove that he could accept her flaws, as well. Starting with that bullheaded stubbornness that kept her from asking for help.

With a scowl, he turned from the window, but it was too late. The sight of Lady Celia crossing the courtyard dressed in some rich fabric had already stirred his blood. She never wore such fetching clothes; generally her lithe figure was shrouded in smocks to protect her workaday gowns from powder smudges while she practiced her target shooting. But this morning, in that lemon-colored gown, with her hair finely arranged and a jeweled bracelet on her delicate wrist, she was summer on a dreary winter day, sunshine in the bleak of night, music in the still silence of a deserted concert hall. And he was a fool. "I can see how you might find her maddening," Masters said in a low voice. Jackson stiffened. "Your wife?" he said, deliberately being obtuse. "Lady Celia." Hell and blazes. He'd obviously let his feelings show. He'd spent his childhood learning to keep them hidden so the other children wouldn't see how their epithets wounded him, and he'd refined that talent as an investigator who knew the value of an unemotional demeanor. He drew on that talent as he faced the barrister. "Anyone would find her maddening. She's reckless and spoiled and liable to give her husband grief at every turn." When she wasn't tempting him to madness. Masters raised an eyebrow. "Yet you often watch her. Have you any interest there?" Jackson forced a shrug. "Certainly not. You'll have to find another way to inherit your new bride's fortune." He'd hoped to prick Masters's pride and thus change the subject, but Masters laughed. "You, marry my sister-in-law? That, I'd like to see. Aside from the fact that her grandmother would never approve, Lady Celia hates you." She did indeed. The chit had taken an instant dislike to him when he'd interfered in an impromptu shooting match she'd been participating in with her brother and his friends at a public park. That should have set him on his guard right then. A pity it hadn't. Because even if she didn't despise him and weren't miles above him in rank, she'd never make him a good wife. She was young and indulged, not the sort of female to make do on a Bow Street Runner's salary. But she'll be an heiress once she marries. He gritted his teeth. That only made matters worse. She would assume he was marrying her for her inheritance. So would everyone else. And his pride chafed at that. Dirty bastard. Son of shame. Whoreson. Love-brat. He'd been called them all as a boy. Later, as he'd moved up at Bow Street, those who resented his rapid advancement had called him a baseborn upstart. He wasn't about to add money-grubbing fortune hunter to the list. "Besides," Masters went on, "you may not realize this, since you haven't been around much these past few weeks, but Minerva claims that Celia has her eye on three very eligible potential suitors." Jackson's startled gaze shot to him. Suitors? The word who was on his lips when the door opened and Stoneville entered. The rest of the family followed, leaving Jackson to force a smile and exchange pleasantries as they settled into seats about the table, but his mind kept running over Masters's words. Lady Celia had suitors. Eligible ones. Good-that was good. He needn't worry about himself around her anymore. She was now out of his reach, thank God. Not that she was ever in his reach, but- "Have you got any news?" Stoneville asked. Jackson started. "Yes." He took a steadying breath and forced his mine to the matter at hand.

Though I’m surprised that you read novels.” “I do have other interests than shooting, you know.” “I never said otherwise.” “But you think me a complete tomboy. Admit it.” He measured his words. “I think you a woman with a few unusual interests that happen to be similar to those of some men. Those interests don’t, however, make you a tomboy.” No tomboy would fire his blood the way she did right now in her elegant redingote, despite the black smudges of power along its sleeves and the mud caked along its hem. And no tomboy would have kept him up last night imagining what it would be like to raise her skirts so he could run his hands along the pale swaths of thigh that lay above her garters. “And yet,” she said hoarsely, “you kissed me as if I were some mannish chit beneath your notice. God forbid you should treat me as a desirable woman in front of my suitors. It might give them ideas.” He stared at her, thunderstruck. She was angry because he’d accorded her the respect she deserved? “Forgive me, my lady,” he said acidly. “I didn’t think you’d want me to toss you down in the grass and ravish you. I see I was mistaken.” Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “There is a vast space between ravishing me and treating me like a child. The gentlemen expected you to kiss me on the lips, as they would have. You won such a kiss, after all. When you didn’t take it, I’m sure they thought it was because I was somehow…unattractive to you. And that only hurts my cause.” Her cause, which was to be affianced to one of those arses. Anger boiled up in him. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. You wanted me to kiss you with some degree of passion so your suitors would be convinced if your desirability as a woman. Is that right?” She cast him a resentful look, then nodded. He strode up close, unable to contain his temper. “Isn’t it enough for you that they’re already barking at your heels like randy hounds? That they’re seizing your hand at the breakfast table and inviting you for tete-a-tete practice at their estates?” “What good does that do me when you seek to turn their affections away at every turn? You provoked me to accept that shooting challenge because you wanted me to frighten them off with my enthusiasm for guns. Admit it.” All right, so that was true. But he had good reason for it. “I wanted them to see you for who you really are and not the woman you keep pretending to be.” “Pretending to be?” she said in a choked voice. “And who is that? A lady worthy of marriage? You wanted to expose me as some…adventuress or man in woman’s attire or…oh, I don’t know what.” “No!” he protested, suddenly all at sea in their argument. “You know what, Mr. Pinter? Ever since we made our agreement, you’ve only made matters worse, for some nefarious reason of your own.” She planted her hands on her hips and gave him a look of pure defiance. “So you’re dismissed from my employ. I no longer require your services.

Outside the room they found his family standing in the Great Hall, discussing something in heated whispers as Freddy nervously paced the other end. Oliver cleared his throat, and they all jumped. “My fiancée has made it clear that she doesn’t appreciate my attempt at a joke.” “Oliver enjoys shocking people,” Maria said calmly. When he looked at her, surprised that she had noticed, she arched one eyebrow at him. “I’m sure you know that about him by now. I find it a great flaw in his character.” She seemed to consider many things as flaws in his character. Not that he could blame her. Gran glanced from Maria to him. “So the two of you didn’t meet in a brothel?” “We did,” he said, “but only because poor Freddy got lost and wandered into one by mistake. I was trying to determine what he was looking for when Maria rushed in, mad with worry over where he might have gone off to. With two such Americans lost in the wicked city, hopelessly innocent of its dangers, I felt compelled to help them. I’ve been squiring them about town the last week. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” She cast him a sugary and thoroughly false smile. “Oh, yes, dearest. And you were a very informative guide, too.” Jarret arched one eyebrow. “Astonishing that after finding you in a brothel, Oliver, Miss Butterfield wasn’t put off of marrying you.” “I ought to have been,” Maria said. “But he swore those days were behind him when he pledged his undying love to me on bended knee.” When Gabriel and Jarret barely managed to stifle their laughter, Oliver gritted his teeth. Bended knee, indeed. She was determined to prick his pride at every opportunity. She probably felt he deserved it. He could only pray that Gran backed down from the right before he had to bring the chit around any of his friends, or Maria would have them taunting him unmercifully for the next decade. “I’m afraid, my dear,” he said tersely, “that my brothers have trouble envisioning me bending a knee to anyone.” She affected a look of wide-eyed shock. “Have they no idea what a romantic you are? I’ll have to show them the sonnets you wrote praising my beauty. I believe I left them in my redingote pocket.” The teasing wench actually looked back toward the entrance. “I could go fetch them if you like.” “Not now,” he said, torn between a powerful urge to laugh and an equally powerful urge to strangle her. “It’s time for dinner, and I’m starved.” “So am I,” Freddy put in. At a frown from Maria, he mumbled, “Not that it matters, mind you.” “Of course it matters,” Gran said graciously. “We don’t like our guests to be uncomfortable. Come along then, Mr. Dunse. You may take me in to dinner, since my grandson is otherwise occupied.” As they trooped toward the dining room, Oliver bent his head to whisper, “I see you’re enjoying making me out to be a besotted idiot.” A minxish smile tipped up her fetching lips. “Oh, yes. It’s great fun.” “Then my explanation of how you ended up in a brothel met with your approval?” “It’ll do for now.” She cast him a glance from beneath her long lashes. “You’re by no means out of the woods yet, sir.” But I will be by the time the night is over. No matter what it took, he would get her to stay and do this, so help him God.

You do that a great deal, don’t you?” He swallowed the rest of his wine. “What?” “Close up into yourself whenever someone tries to peer into your soul. Make a joke of it.” “If you came out here to lecture me,” he snapped, “don’t bother. Gran has perfected that talent. You can’t possibly compete.” “I only want to understand.” “I want to be consumed by a star, but we don’t all get what we want.” “What?” “Never mind.” Turning for the nearest door into the house, he started to stalk off, but she caught his arm. “Why are you so angry at your grandmother?” Maria asked. “I told you-she’s trying to ruin the lives of me and my siblings.” “By requiring you to marry so you can have children? I thought all lords and ladies were expected to do that. And the five of you are certainly old enough.” Her tone turned teasing. “Some of you are beyond being old enough.” “Watch it, minx,” he clipped out. “I’m not in the mood for having my nose tweaked tonight.” “Because of your grandmother, you mean. It’s not just her demand that has you angry, is it? It goes back longer than that.” Oliver glared at her. “Why do you care? Has she got you fighting her battles for her now?” “Hardly. She just informed me that I was, and I quote, ‘exactly the sort of woman who would not meet my requirements of a wife.’” A smile touched his lips at her accurate mimicking of Gran at her most haughty. “I told you she would think that.” “Yes,” she said dryly. “You both excel at insulting people.” “One of my many talents.” “There you go again. Making a joke to avoid talking about what makes you uncomfortable.” “And what is that?” “What did your grandmother do, besides giving you an ultimatum about marriage, that has you at daggers drawn?” Blast it all, would she not leave off? “How do you know she did anything? Perhaps I’m just contrary.” “You are. But that’s not what has you so angry at her.” “If you plan to spend the next two weeks asking ridiculous questions that have no answers, then I will pay you to return to London.” She smiled. “No, you won’t. You need me.” “True. But since I’m paying for the service you’re providing, I get some say in how it’s rendered. Bedeviling me with questions isn’t part of our bargain.” “You haven’t paid me anything yet,” she said lightly, “so I should think there’s some leeway in the terms. Especially since I’ve been working hard all evening furthering your cause. I just finished telling your grandmother that I have ‘feelings’ for you, and that I know you have ‘feelings’ for me.” “You didn’t choke on that lie?” he quipped. “I do have feelings for you-probably not the sort she meant, though apparently she believed me. But she was suspicious. She’s more astute than you give her credit for. First she accused us of acting a farce, and then, when I denied that, she accused me of thinking to marry you so I could gain a fortune from her down the line.” “And what did you say to that?” “I told her she could keep her precious fortune.” “Did you, indeed? I would have given my right arm to see that.” Maria was proving to be an endless source of amazement. No one ever stood up to Gran-except this American chit, with her naïve beliefs in justice and right and morality. It amazed him that she’d done it, considering how he’d treated her. No one, not even his siblings, had ever defended him with so little reason. It stirred something that had long lain dead inside him. His conscience? No, that wasn’t dead; it was nonexistent.

He recognized her deft hand and eye for detail immediately. He flipped through the pages, past vignettes of the dairymaid and her vague-featured gentleman engaged in a courtship of sorts: a kiss on the hand, a whisper in the ear. By the book’s midpoint, the chit’s voluminous petticoats were up around her ears, and the illustrations comprised a sequence of quite similar poses in varying locales. Not just the dairy, but a carriage, the larder, in a hayloft lit with candles and strewn with…were those rose petals? I’ll be damned. Gray was fast divining the true source of the French painting master’s mythic exploits. More unsettling by far, however, as he perused the book, he noted a subtle alteration in the gentleman lover’s features. With each successive illustration, the hero appeared taller, broader in the shoulders, and his hair went from a cropped style to collar length in the space of two pages. The more pages Gray turned, the more he recognized himself. It was unmistakable. She’d used him as the model for these bawdy illustrations. She’d sketched him in secret; not once, but many times. And here he’d nearly gone mad with envy over each scrap of foolscap she’d inked for once crewman or another. His emotions underwent a dizzying progression-from surprised, to flattered, to (with the benefit of one especially inventive situation in an orchard) undeniably aroused. But as he lingered over a nude study of this amalgam of the real him and some picaresque fantasy, he began to feel something else entirely. He felt used. She’d rendered his form with astonishing accuracy, given that it must have been drawn before she’d any opportunity to actually see him unclothed. Not that she’d achieved an exact likeness. Her virgin’s imagination was rather generous in certain aspects and somewhat stinting in others, he noted with a bitter sort of amusement. But she’d laid him bare in these pages, without his knowledge or consent. God, she’d even drawn his scars. All in service of some adolescent erotic fantasy. And now he began to grow angry. He had been handling the leaves of the book with his fingertips only, anxious he might smudge or rip the pages. Now he abandoned all caution and flipped roughly through the remainder of the volume. Until he came to the end, and his hand froze. There they were, the two of them. He and she fully clothed and unengaged in any physical intimacies-yet intimate, in a way he had never known. Never dreamed. Sitting beneath a willow tree, his head in her lap. One of her hands lay twined with his, atop his chest. The other rested on his brow. The sky soared vast and expansive above, gauzy clouds spinning into forever. The hot fist of desire that had gripped his loins loosened, moved upward through his torso, churning the contents of his gut along the way. Then it clutched at his heart and squeezed until it hurt. Somehow, this illustration was the most dismaying of all. So naïve, so ridiculous. at least the bawdy situations were plausible, if sometimes physically improbable. This was utterly impossible. To her, he'd never been more than a fantasy. It occurred to Gray that more secrets might be packed within these trunks. If he sorted through her belongings, he might find the answers to all his questions. Perhaps answers to questions he'd never thought to ask. In spite of this, he let the lid of the trunk clap shut and fastened the strap with shaking fingers. He'd suffered as many of her fantasies as he could bear for one day. It was time to acquaint her with reality.

Chits knew no ideology.

Kate gave a disdainful wave of her hand. “I poo-poo the chit.” The attendant looked stunned. “You cannot poo-poo the chit!” “I do,” she said solemnly. “I do poo-poo.

He for a considerable time used to frequent the Green Room, and seemed to take delight in dissipating his gloom, by mixing in the sprightly chit-chat of the motley circle then to be found there. Mr. David Hume related to me from Mr. Garrick, that Johnson at last denied himself this amusement, from considerations of rigid virtue; saying, ‘I’ll come no more behind your scenes, David; for the silk stockings and white bosoms of your actresses excite my amorous propensities.

She was a clever girl, but she filled that brain of hers with far too much fluff on the types of gowns and the styles of bonnets. Then again, he shouldn’t be wishing her intelligence was put to use elsewhere. Lord knows the little chit might end up a brilliant political hostess or married to a member of the House of Lords. He wouldn’t give her credit for anything less and the very idea of her having any influence over a man in politics was terrifying. -Lucien's thoughts about Audrey

Benedict!” Damn. He’d nearly made a clean escape. He looked up to see his mother hurrying toward him. She was dressed in some sort of Elizabethan costume. He supposed she was meant to be a character in one of Shakespeare’s plays, but for the life of him, he had no idea which. “What can I do for you, Mother?” he asked. “And don’t say ‘Dance with Hermione Smythe-Smith.’ Last time I did that I nearly lost three toes in the process.” “I wasn’t going to ask anything of the sort,” Violet replied. “I was going to ask you to dance with Prudence Featherington.” “Have mercy, Mother,” he moaned. “She’s even worse.” “I’m not asking you to marry the chit,” she said. “Just dance with her.” Benedict fought a groan. Prudence Featherington, while essentially a nice person, had a brain the size of a pea and a laugh so grating he’d seen grown men flee with their hands over their ears. “I’ll tell you what,” he wheedled. “I’ll dance with Penelope Featherington if you keep Prudence at bay.” “That’ll do,” his mother said with a satisfied nod, leaving Benedict with the sinking sensation that she’d wanted him to dance with Penelope all along. “She’s over there by the lemonade table,” Violet said, “dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing. The color is good for her, but someone really must take her mother in hand next time they venture out to the dressmaker. A more unfortunate costume, I can’t imagine.” “You obviously haven’t seen the mermaid,” Benedict murmured. She swatted him lightly on the arm. “No poking fun at the guests.” “But they make it so easy.” She shot him a look of warning before saying, “I’m off to find your sister.” “Which one?” “One of the ones who isn’t married,” Violet said pertly.

What the hell are we doing in this abomination of a rat's nest? We're talking, having the banter, the auld chit-chat and chewing the fat and all that. Shooting the breeze and anything else that may come our way. Bang-bang.

He told me once that the devil dwells in you.” “No doubt he does believe it. And what do you think, Mariana Farr?” He did look faintly devilish, smiling down at me with his dark clothes and his dark hair and those glinting eyes the color of the forest that surrounded us, shutting us off together from the wider world. I studied him closely, and shrugged in my turn. “I am no simple chit in hanging sleeves, my lord. I have eyes of my own to judge with, and I see no horns.

That was odd, thought Valencia, since she had all but given the unnatural woman the cut direct the last time they’d seen each other. Prudence continued.  “Lizzie, do you know Lady Elling?” Liam’s sister furrowed her brow, lost in thought.  “I am not sure.  Perhaps…do you have a son that I might have danced with, Lady Elling?  Or perhaps a grandson?” “No,” Lady Elling bit out.  “I have no children.” “Oh!” said the stupid chit.  “Pray forgive me.  I grow positively addle-brained when I have spent so much time selecting clothes.  Especially when they must be good enough for a duchess.  You see, I am only

In many parts of India, chit funds address gaps left by the traditional banking sector.

A man’s life, Choje taught his monks, did not move in a linear progression, with each day an equal chit on the calendar of existence. Rather it moved from defining moment to defining moment, marked by the decisions that roiled the soul.