Clem Quotes

Clem: Hide me somewhere deeper, somewhere really buried. Joel: Where? Clem: Hide me in your humiliation.

Boys are given the universe in which to carve out their identities, the promise of infinite space for them to expand into and contract upon. Girls are allowed only enough room to be stars, and they must twinkle, twinkle if they want anyone to pay attention to them.

The name's Clem Williamson Snide. I am a private asshole.

He isn't mine to miss,' I say a minute later, after I control the quiver I know would have crept into my voice if I'd responded right away. 'No one belongs to anyone, Clem. Especially not when you're sixteen years old.

Most people,” Clem said carefully, “most people think that I shouldn’t make a fuss.” “Most people think that nobody should make a fuss until it’s their own comfort at stake, at which point they will bring the roof down shrieking about it.

When she entered the sitting room she was not at first noticed. The music had changed now, to something slower, and the women were dancing; Harri’s dark head against the breast of Gwen’s white shirt, Gwen’s hand low on Harri’s back. Gwen’s eyes were closed and the look on her face, serene and blissful, sent a fright through Clem.

Trying to understand anything Callum Clem did was a recipe for madness. He read like an old poem; everything could be expected to have three meanings or none at all.

Clem ground out her cigarette and immediately wished she hadn’t. It had felt like something live she could hold onto

The name is Clem Williamson Snide. I am a private asshole.

That was the sort of thing people said and then it turned out they hadn’t meant that at all. Clem knew he didn’t recognise sarcasm because he had been told so, repeatedly. Even so, he was very nearly positive that Mr. Green meant every word.

Nobody knew me at Buckton. Clem had chosen the town because of that; and besides, even if I had wimp out, there was not enough gas to help me going further north. - I spit on your graves ,

A single person is a manageable entity, whom you can either make friends with or leave alone. But half of a married couple is not exactly a whole human being: if the marriage is successful it is something a little more than that; if unsuccessful, a little less. In either case, a fresh complication is added to the already intricate business of friendship: as Clem had once remarked, you might as well try to dance a tarantella with a Siamese twin.

Rowley had thought at first the beast had no name; it had taken him a while to understand that it had a perfectly good, descriptive name to which it was as likely to answer as any other, and that name was Cat. There was something terribly Clem about that.

I think he thought no one would want to marry me because of the way I am". "Why? What way are you?" "Oh . All wrong", said Clem with a brief smile. "I'm all wrong".

But ne'er mind. We're but where we was; and I'll break stones on th' road afore I let these little uns clem.

Nobody had ever pinned Clem to a tree before. New experiences were good for the soul.

It’s a bright shadow,” Clem said with fierce intensity, and Rowley’s throat closed. For the words, and their meaning, and for Clem’s open look, without the nervous apprehension and the hint of a stammer. For the trust that allowed him in moments like this to drop his ever-present guard. Hell

I heard my old friend Clem’s voice coming back to me through the dimness of thirty years: “I see you coming here trying to make sense where there is no sense. Try just living in it. Respond, alter, see what happens.” I thought of the African way of perceiving life, as experience to be lived rather than as problem to be solved.

I like to think that birds do not die, they simply fly away to heaven when their time here on earth is up

How do you stand it?" she said. "Stand what?" "All... this." Ella threw out her arm. "Does it not make you mad?" Clem glanced up. 'Much madness is divinest sense,' She said, and gave a small laugh. "There are plenty of mad women in here. I'm not sure I'm one of them though." She shrugged. "You'll get used to it.

There is so much joy in the world, and I have bled to find the sun.

TAMPA- Controversial radio personality Bubba the Love Sponge Clem no longer can be heard on Tampa Bay's broadcast airwaves.

They don’t make spectacles for you, do they?” Clem

Albert being the expert on husbandly reactions,” Clem could not help himself from retorting.  Albert was an annoying little fucker as far as Clem was concerned.

Clem beheld her with a feeling he was starting to feel familiar with.  A sort of mingled horror and awe.

Clem Miniver: She was a good cook, as good cooks go. And as good cooks go, she went.

Clem couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. He was giving up his student deferment to show his father what a strong man did.

He told me he loved me, Clem.’ Oh Lord.’ ‘And I believed him.’ ‘How many dozens of men have told you that?’ ‘Yes, but he was different ‘Famous last words.

Marryin’s good, keeps a body on his toes. Me, once I lost Clem, I never cared to wed again.

One night a flock of red-tailed black cockatoos break the quiet as they charge up from the creek, right over the homestead, then down the hill towards Clem's house. 'They're my favourite, you know, of all the birds, they're the best,' comes Tom's raspy whisper. 'I know Dad,' says Clem. 'You always say.' 'They're majestic, dramatic. You wouldn't argue with one.

Clem,” Phelan called to me again, his voice sharp and beautiful as a glass in my mind. I forced my answer down, down in the tangled vines of my lungs and the wild briars of my being.

Clem didn’t seem to have whatever ability it was that let other people “just tell,” and it felt as if there was an entire world of communication going on at a pitch he couldn’t hear. Not

I know that I was christened Clementine, and so it would make sense if people called me Clem, or even, come to think of it, Clementine, since that’s my name: but they don’t. People call me Tish.

I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Clem told Ethel, two days later. “Did it involve three longshoremen and a bottle of Scotch?” the older witch asked. Clem blinked. “What? No.” “Yes! My record holds.

Clem rubbed at her face with her cuff and gave a quick, rueful smile. 'It's just so sad. It's the umpteenth time I've read it, and I will always think it will have a different ending. But it never does.

Old Clem! With a thump and a sound – Old Clem! Beat it out, beat it out – Old Clem! With a clink for the stout – Old Clem! Blow the fire, blow the fire – Old Clem! Roaring dryer, soaring higher – Old Clem!

Clem caught her eye across the table. It seemed to her sometimes that the most important thing about marriage was not a home or children or a remedy against sin, but simply there being always an eye to catch.

They're not in the gutter because they had visions, Gentle,” Clem said. “They're there because they've been abused, or they've abused themselves.” “Which means they can't cover their despair the way the rest can. They've got no distractions from their pain. So they get drunk and crazy, and the next day they're even more lost than they were the day before. But I'd still rather trust them than all the bishops and the ministers. Maybe they're naked, but isn't that a holy state?

��"Che m'importa di quello che è successo con Oliver? Non sono affari miei" dissi. "Io voglio sposarmi." Clem aveva insistito per un fidanzamento di sei mesi, conoscendo la mia natura e la mia personalità. Ma questo consiglio andava bene per i bottegai della vita, non per chi aveva passato tutta la propria esistenza con un solo grande obiettivo. "Certo" disse lei, "anch'io voglio sposarmi, se tu mi ami." Glielo giurai con tutto il cuore. "Se dopo pranzo mi ami ancora" disse lei, "chiedimelo di nuovo.

I guess that’s how well you know me. You think I like hearing this news.” “I’m sorry. This is selfish. I just need to tell someone … outside my life. Get it out of my head, to keep from going nuts, but somewhere safe.” She sees me as safe? This brings tears to my eyes. “I trust you, Clem. Are you pissed?

I didn’t say that I thought Clem was a bad translator, or that I didn’t believe there was any such thing as an impassable gulf in the thinking of two human beings. Of course you couldn’t translate everything, but you could damn well explicate, particularly if you both spoke such a sprawling monster of a language as English.

The President looked out of his window. He was not very happy. “I worry about Bill, Hubert, Henry, Kevin, Edward, Clem, Dan and their lover, Snow White. I sense that all is not well with them. Now, looking out over this green lawn, and these fine rosebushes, and into the night and the yellow buildings, and the falling Dow Jones Index and the screams of the poor, I am concerned. I have many important things to worry about, but I worry about Bill and the boys too. Because I am the President. Finally. the President of the whole fucking country. And they are Americans, Bill, Hubert, Henry, Kevin, Edward, Clem, Dan and Snow White. They are Americans. My Americans.

We’ve just been boppin’ to A Hundred Pounds of Clay, ten decades of dismay, millennia of decay, let’s lose that negligee, this is Big Boppin’ Clodhopper Clem, spinning the hits, squeezing the zits, bruising the tits, bring on the worms, bring on the nits, the cadavers, palaver, the skin unzips, the skin sloughs off along with the slip…

She looked so disappointed, so grieved and desperate that Clem longed to comfort her, only he couldn't think of thing to say that she hadn't heard a hundred times from Dad and Dr. Snow and Mrs. Mack: how things would get better in time, though no one knew how much time, and that life might be a little better for her and Jess once school began again.

The clatter of Crow calling to Crow - is there anywhere a friendlier, happier sound?

You’ll make new friends, Clem. And you can still see those girls whenever you like.’ ‘But I’m on my own!’ ‘That’s okay. It’s high school.’ I had been thinking that perhaps she might offer to talk to the school about the situation, but she’s blown it off like it doesn’t matter. She obviously has no idea how hard it is to start high school in a class on your own.

-¿Por qué quiero esas cosas de ella? ¿Por qué me imagino esas cosas? ¡Es horrible! +¿Qué es horrible? -No tengo derecho, es una chica. Es horrible. +Clem, lo horrible es que la gente se mate por petróleo y se cometan genocidios... Y no querer dar amor a alguien. Y es horrible que te enseñen que está mal enamorarte de alguien sólo porque tenga el mismo sexo que tú

Wagstaff was a trim little man in a dark-blue uniform with an armband embroidered with the words CIVIL DEFENSE. "Thank you, Headmaster, and good morning, young gentlemen. Yesterday, as I'm sure you'll remember, I spoke to you about the ways you can help your parents prepare their homes against the possibility of nuclear attack." Clem grinned, noting Tash Harmsworth's scowl. Tash was a bugger for an incorrect proposition.

On a different front, everybody said that casinos in South Africa would create jobs. They’ve had precisely the opposite effect. Wherever they’ve been erected, they’ve drained the local economy of money as poor people – seduced by the dream of becoming instant millionaires – have frittered away their hard-earned, meagre incomes on the slot machines. Consequently, local businesses and shops have suffered and have had to lay off

She knew that she should; it was the only way to integrate the nightmares with her logical daytime thoughts. The therapists she had seen in the past talked about exposing her fears to the light of day, desensitizing herself so that she could handle the feelings and work through them.

Without the ginger kitten, she would have been left with her own thoughts all night, worrying about what was going to happen at her police interview the next day. As it was, she seemed to fly from one kitten exploit to another. Was it any wonder that ‘catastrophe’ started with ‘cat’?

Clem is my first dead body. I’ve heard again and again—mostly from friends who’ve lost other friends to AIDS—that it’s essential to see the corpse of someone you love, especially someone who’s died undeservedly young; how it will confirm the way nothing else can that he or she is no longer here. The body won’t look like the person you know, the self of that person, at all. This tells you there has to be a soul because something’s missing; what else could that something be? The first thing I know, when I see her, isthat this is not a piece of advice I will ever pass on.

Well!” said John Slater, after having acknowledged his nose and his likeness; “I could laugh at a jest as well as e’er the best on ‘em, though it did tell agen mysel, if I were not clemming” (his eyes filled with tears; he was a poor, pinched, sharp-featured man, with a gentle and melancholy expression of countenance), “and if I could keep from thinking of them at home, as is clemming; but with their cries for food ringing in my ears, and making me afeard of going home, and wonder if I should hear ’em wailing out, if I lay cold and drowned at th’ bottom o’ th’ canal, there — why, man, I cannot laugh at aught. It seems to make me sad that there is any as can make game on what they’ve never knowed; as can make such laughable pictures on men, whose very hearts within ’em are so raw and sore as ours were and are, God help us.” John

In exchange for institutionalization, people with mental illness today have been provided with splendid autonomy. But this particular bland of autonomy comes with a price. It’s an autonomy that allows them to survive however they may: on their own if they can, in the homes of their families available to support them–if they happen to have families available to support them–or on the streets and in prisons if they don’t. In any case, the beauty of this system is that the treatment they presently receive is killing them earlier than ever, so there will be less cost to the system than ever.

It makes me more than sad, it makes my heart burn within me, to see that folk can make a jest of earnest men; of chaps who comed to ask for a bit o' fire for th' old granny, as shivers in th' cold; for a bit o' bedding, and some warm clothing to the poor wife as lies in labour on th' damp flags; and for victuals for the childer, whose little voices are getting too faint and weak to cry aloud wi' hunger. For, brothers, is not them the things we ask for when we ask for more wage? We donnot want dainties, we want bellyfuls; we donnot want gimcrack coats and waistcoats, we want warm clothes, and so that we get 'em we'd not quarrel wi' what they're made on. We donnot want their grand houses, we want a roof to cover us from the rain, and the snow, and the storm; ay, and not alone to cover us, but the helpless ones that cling to us in the keen wind, and ask us with their eyes why we brought 'em into th' world to suffer?" He lowered his deep voice almost to a whisper. "I've seen a father who had killed his child rather than let it clem before his eyes; and he were a tender-hearted man." He began again in his usual tone. "We come to th' masters wi' full hearts, to ask for them things I named afore. We know that they've gotten money, as we've earned for 'em; we know trade is mending, and that they've large orders, for which they'll be well paid; we ask for our share o' th' payment; for, say we, if th' masters get our share of payment it will only go to keep servants and horses, to more dress and pomp. Well and good, if yo choose to be fools we'll not hinder you, so long as you're just; but our share we must and will have; we'll not be cheated. We want it for daily bread, for life itself; and not for our own lives neither (for there's many a one here, I know by mysel, as would be glad and thankful to lie down and die out o' this weary world), but for the lives of them little ones, who don't yet know what life is, and are afeard of death. Well, we come before th' masters to state what we want, and what we must have, afore we'll set shoulder to their work; and they say, 'No.' One would think that would be enough of hard-heartedness, but it isn't. They go and make jesting pictures of us! I could laugh at mysel, as well as poor John Slater there; but then I must be easy in my mind to laugh. Now I only know that I would give the last drop o' my blood to avenge us on yon chap, who had so little feeling in him as to make game on earnest, suffering men!

Raphael looked like he might have laughed if he'd been younger and more cheerful. 'Why are you using the Jesuit dictionary?' 'How do you know what I'm using? A d it's the only Quechua dictionary.' 'It's probably shrine,'I said, and then when Clem frowned, not understanding, 'not idol.' Raphael nodded to me and I smiled, because he was taking it so gently. I would have burst out laughing if someone had translated Christchurch as Heathen God Temple in front of me.

He had loved her without question and he had loved her without pause; she was certain of that. He had thought the best of her always; he'd brought her the one life sh'd wanted. Who would she be now, she wondered, without him? Who was Elsie Gormley if Clem Gormley's idea of her was no longer alive?

Once in a while, she let herself dream that the Elsie in the painting was off with Ida, on her adventures, together somehow. Now, with Clem’s strange-feeling hand in hers, it occurred to her for the first time that the canvas might be anywhere—she might be hanging on her own in some dark hall, or filed away and forgotten, out of sight. And then it also struck her that she, the real Elsie, might now go anywhere too. She swallowed a sound like a sob, and heard an echo of it in the night: the strange and mournful shriek of a curlew. It was impossible not to interpret the sound as grief or loss or suffering. That is the right noise to make now, she thought, fierce and alone.

Manson robbed the LaBiancas first, taking Rosemary’s purse from her. Next, he collected Patricia Krenwinkel and Leslie Van Houten from the car and brought them into the house, giving Tex the horrifying instruction to “make sure everybody does something.” Then Manson got back in the car and drove away from the LaBianca home with Linda Kasabian, Susan Atkins, and Clem Grogan inside. Inside the house, Tex Watson killed Leno LaBianca by stabbing him in the throat multiple times with a bayonet. He then used his bayonet on Rosemary who was trying to fight off Patricia and Lesley. Patricia stabbed Rosemary again when Tex, heeding Manson’s instruction that everyone should take part in the murders, told Leslie to take over. Leslie stabbed Rosemary LaBianca 16 times. Tex carved the word “WAR” into Leno’s stomach before all three murderers wrote the words “Rise,” “Death to pigs,” and “Healter Skelter (sic)” on the walls in blood. As a parting gesture, Patricia stabbed Leno’s corpse with a carving fork, which she left jutting out of his stomach alongside the steak knife she left in his neck. While all of this had been going on, Manson was driving the other family members around Los Angeles. Manson bought them chocolate milkshakes with Rosemary LaBianca’s money then had Linda ditch Rosemary’s wallet in the hope that a black person would find it and incriminate themselves in the LaBianca murders. But the killing still wasn’t over. Manson pressed the others to find out if they knew anyone in the Venice Beach area they were driving through. Linda Kasabian admitted to knowing an actor who lived nearby. Manson handed Linda a knife and told her to knock on this actor’s door and stab him. Manson also gave his gun to Clem, instructing him to shoot the actor if Linda was unable to stab him to death. Faced with the task of murdering an innocent man, Linda balked and told the others that she couldn’t remember where the actor lived. Manson drove back to Spahn Ranch, and the rest of the gang hitchhiked back.

Daisy thought of one of Churchill’s jibes about Attlee: “An empty car drew up and Clem got out.” The man he called a nonentity had thrashed him.

Mr. Power winked. Clem hoped that was meant to convey understanding.

Clem tried to marshal his meaning to his tongue,

People don’t really call me that, do they?” “Well, we do. At book club. Clem says that your cherry Danishes are to die for, so she was in favor of the Great Dane, and Margie loves your cream puffs, so she wanted to call you DreamPuff, but I lobbied for CinnaMan since those are my favorites. At the risk of tooting my own horn, I’m pretty influential,

examining everything. The place had clearly been just what Clem called it—a hidey-hole—a home away from home for Justice’s father. And for Justice himself? He didn’t know. One of the wooden crates held a bushel of potatoes in need of sprouting. The others held various dry goods, mostly food. A hundred air tights, maybe more, dried beans, flour, sugar, and coffee… a lot of coffee. A coffee pot sat on the table, along with mugs, plates, and silverware. A burlap sack slumped against one wall. Checking inside, he found oats for horses. The top drawer of the chest held a gun belt with two holsters, each holding a loaded revolver. As he examined these pistols, he was amazed by how good they felt. Their balance, their weight, the smoothness with which they slid from the well-worn holster… it was amazing… and at the same time familiar.

I was never the greatest boxer,” Clem Dabney continued in his mellow, pleasant voice.  “But I could always draw a crowd.” “I expect they all wanted to see you punched in the face,” Theo answered thoughtfully.  “I know I would.” “Theo!”  Her sister was horrified. “Oh dear, did I say that out loud?” Theo asked pulling a face.

Liking yourself is a radical act,’ Clem had instructed Jo and myself. ‘Never more so than when you’ve had a crap time from a man.’ So when you get turned down for a second date, when you find out you were one of seven options, when your texts have the Read receipt, when the WhatsApp shows two blue ticks and your Facebook messages say SEEN – Clem says do the opposite of wallowing. She prescribes: spend an entire day treating yourself as you’d wish to be treated. Take yourself for margaritas, see a film you fancy, have a long walk. Buy something frivolous which brings you joy, order a takeaway. Get sheets with high thread count and lie like a starfish on them, naked. ‘It’s like aggressive hygge. Celebrate how great you are and what a nice time you have by yourself. Refuse to partake in the self-loathing we’re virtually commanded to, in this sick society.

It was hard to see how Clem could have spent so much time in countries like this but never noticed that success or failure depended on being a water boatman, skimming, instead of being a diver and getting everyone wet with an enormous splash whenever anything interesting passed through the deep water.

Clem had her own conflicted feelings about monogamy, but she did know one couldn't simply decide fidelity was for chumps without having a conversation with their partner first. If a relationship stopped meeting someone's needs, they should end it if a new normal couldn't be negotiated.

Most of her stepmothers had been more like the ones from the worst fairy tales. It figured that Barnabas had snagged someone genuinely nice this time, who might be wrecked when he cheated. Clem would never understand why he bothered getting married when his inclinations were so clearly polyamorous, but she suspected he wouldn’t enjoy sharing his partner with other people; he just wanted to get more than he gave. Maybe that was even part of the fun.

she might have seen Clem slip out of the wall tent. She might have seen him follow her along the path

The morning dawned, cool and grey as the sun slowly snuck over the rooftops, slowly lighting the room in a blue haze. Sera stirred as the light brushed her face, prying her eyes open as she pulled herself slowly out of a dream. Against the window stood Clem, shimmering silver and pearlescent in the morning light, watching Sera sleep with an odd expression on her face. “I am still here,” the ghost said. “You’re still here,” the girl replied.

She frowned down at what was left of her skirt before gathering the silvery fabric in her fists and tugging. The shreds of fabric tore away as she did, dissipating into the growing rose of the dawn. Clem let out a sudden, delighted laugh, making Sera jump.

Clem, Ask me for anything. Take me for all I’m worth. Turns out, it’s a lot. -Ox

Clem: Answer me, hoochy I groan. Me: I’m working, skank Clem: I need you to watch Poppy this weekend. Pretty please. No cherries on top because I ate them.

It was no use. She said it as many times, with as many details, statistics, figures, proofs, as she could force out of her weary mind into their evasive hearing. It was no use. They neither refuted nor agreed; they merely looked as if her arguments were beside the point. There was a sound of hidden emphasis in their answers, as if they were giving her an explanation, but in a code to which she had no key. “There’s trouble in California,” said Wesley Mouch sullenly. “Their state legislature’s been acting pretty huffy. There’s talk of seceding from the Union.” “Oregon is overrun by gangs of deserters,” said Clem Weatherby cautiously. “They murdered two tax collectors within the last three months.” “The importance of industry to a civilization has been grossly overemphasized,” said Dr. Ferris dreamily. “What is now known as the People’s State of India has existed for centuries without any industrial development whatever.” “People could do with fewer material gadgets and a sterner discipline of privations,” said Eugene Lawson eagerly. “It would be good for them.” “Oh hell, are you going to let that dame talk you into letting the richest country on earth slip through your fingers?” said Cuffy Meigs, leaping to his feet. “It’s a fine time to give up a whole continent—and in exchange for what? For a dinky little state that’s milked dry, anyway! I say ditch Minnesota, but hold onto your transcontinental dragnet. With trouble and the riots everywhere, you won’t be able to keep people in line unless you have transportation—troop transportation—unless you hold your soldiers within a few days’ journey of any point on the continent. This is no time to retrench. Don’t get yellow, listening to all that talk. You’ve got the country in your pocket. Just keep it there.

She wasn’t sure if her eyes were open or closed. Everything hurt. It was quiet and dark, so she went to sleep.

To find all that was left of my life with Laurel and Clem were the memories inside my head—such an unreliable place to store such precious things.

FORGIVE ME, FOR I HAVE SINNED . . . for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God . . . Romans 3:23 Every single human being has sinned and will sin again. Darn it. I’m right there at the top having to acknowledge mine. Double darn. I was baptized Catholic as a baby, part of a big, loyal Irish Catholic family led by our patriarch, Grandpa Clem Sheeran. Later, when I became of age to make the conscious decision to publicly testify of my walk with Christ, I was baptized in the icy waters of Little Beaver Lake. When Pastor Riley dunked me under the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, I was then lifted out of the water and . . . I was still the same Sarah Heath. Yes, I’d just testified to joining the “righteousness of Christ Jesus,” but I still lived in the fallen world, a world overrun by sin, which is easy to see just by looking at the news, or in the mirror. No one is perfect, and in case we forget that, this verse bluntly reminds us we all need the mercy of God in the midst of our mess. And friends, with all due respect, we are a mess. Consider the example of our elected national leaders supporting a treaty with Iran that lifts sanctions against this enemy nation instead of punishing its evil acts—while still fully acknowledging that it’s the top sponsor of worldwide Islamic terrorism and is hell-bent on destroying both America and Israel. Yes, we are a mess. Lord have mercy. And what about us? It may be a hard-to-accept truth, but fallen man’s nature puts us all in the same boat until we ask for the life-saving newness God offers. Accepting it is the only way to clean up the mess. It’s an important step to honestly admit that we try to excuse things in our own lives because they don’t seem as bad when compared to what someone else has done. But we’ve got to call those things what they are: sin. Only then can we repent and be forgiven. SWEET FREEDOM IN Action Today, examine your conscience, confess your sins, and rest in the comfort of the Lord’s forgiveness.

When you're always focused on the big cosmic pictures, you can miss the earthly details" -Clem

into the dimly lit apartment. Josh in front. Abbie, cradling Clem in her arms, one step behind. A lamp shined in the living room. The TV was showing an old episode of the Twilight Zone. Wrapping paper and uneaten cake still lay scattered on the coffee table. Clem meowed as Abbie turned toward the kitchen. Dharma came around the corner,

be called Clem. I am twenty-seven years old. I am

«Premesso che sono titolare di carta di credito, e non voglio regali o ricordini d’addio di nessun genere dai Ragusia-Selvatia,» Clem agitò in alto i pugni in segno di sfida, «non desidero partecipare alle vostre orge depravate.» Lord Tanith ammiccò. «Sarebbe un vero peccato, visto il vostro aspetto sgualcito. Se c’è una cosa che posso affermare, da vero esperto, è che le orge fanno bene alla pelle.»

one of Churchill’s jibes about Attlee: “An empty car drew up and Clem got out.” The

apartment door. Clem strutted out, meowing and winding between Abbie’s legs. Abbie picked up the cat as she peeked into the living room. Everything looked quiet. They stepped into the dimly lit apartment. Josh in front. Abbie, cradling Clem in her arms, one step behind. A lamp shined in the living room. The TV was showing an old episode of the Twilight Zone. Wrapping paper and uneaten cake still lay scattered on the coffee table. Clem meowed as Abbie turned toward the kitchen. Dharma came around the corner,

Oh my God, you’re insatiable.’ He held her arms. ‘Only on the full moon.’ *

Zac, Clem, and I stare at the radiant paper as if it were a television screen while bright blue script scrawls across the page from top to bottom and ends with a single underline. For a signature.

(Clem Moore would later marry Susan Alliston, one of the women Ted Hughes was seeing when Plath died.)

The Leckwiths were excited about the Beveridge Report, a government paper that had become a bestseller. “Commissioned under a Conservative prime minister and written by a Liberal economist,” said Bernie. “Yet it proposes what the Labour Party has always wanted! You know you’re winning, in politics, when your opponents steal your ideas.” Ethel said: “The idea is that everyone of working age should pay a weekly insurance premium, then get benefits when they are sick, unemployed, retired, or widowed.” “A simple proposal, but it will transform our country,” Bernie said enthusiastically. “Cradle to grave, no one will ever be destitute again.” Daisy said: “Has the government accepted it?” “No,” said Ethel. “Clem Attlee pressed Churchill very hard, but Churchill won’t endorse the report. The Treasury thinks it will cost too much.” Bernie said: “We’ll have to win an election before we can implement it.

Clem Whitaker and Leone Baxter, who ran a California company called Campaigns, Inc., the first political consulting firm in the history of the world.9 They’d opened shop in 1933, chiefly running political campaigns for Republican candidates. For a long time, they’d taken only California clients. But beginning in 1949, they’d engaged in a national campaign, and they’d won: retained by the American Medical Association, they’d defeated a national health insurance plan proposed by the Democratic president, Harry S. Truman

Clem didn’t know a man who worked more passionately for social justice than his father, and when you really loved someone, the whole person, you simply accepted the little things you might have wished were different. He could see eyes being rolled when his father waxed religious at a fellowship meeting, but Becky herself rolled her eyes like that. It didn’t mean she didn’t love him.

His slender, pale frame and delicate features had an air of fragility about them, a whiff of melancholy, a potent combination practically guaranteed to bring out all my hunter-gatherer instincts. Clem imbued me with a primitive urge to sling him over my shoulder and carry him back to my cave. Which was… pretty basic.

Miss Clem, there are two men in the market!” I blinked, wondering what this had to do with me. Whether she was attempting to play matchmaker, which she had woefully done with me in the past. “Are men forbidden from the market these days, Miss Westin?” “If only they could be,” the baker countered, but then pondered on such a possibility, and her face creased with a frown. “Although my business would suffer for it. But no, there are two men— strangers —lurking about town, asking about your father.

That’s the rice flour. If you’re going to use rice flour, it should be superfine. You should let your batters soak. And you should combine it with other, softer flours.

Gluten-free doesn’t mean it has to suck,

All the stuff I’ve had before, it’s always gritty and falls apart. Or it tastes like cardboard. Your baking is real nice.

My foster sister kept cheating on her diet and that caused damage to her intestinal tract. They tried to repair it, tried to keep her on a strict gluten-free diet, but she wouldn’t comply and nothing they did helped. She lost weight, couldn’t absorb nutrients from anything she ate… until she just wasted away.

Today. Today was the first day that I was a professional gluten-free baker. The first day that it wasn’t just a hobby, but my job.

When Clementine was running the tea room, she did very little of her own baking. Most of what she sold here, she bought. I don’t know if it was from Angela Plaint’s bakery, or if that even existed when I was a little girl.

Maybe I should be calling a lawyer.” “No one is making any accusations right now. This is a routine investigation. Of course, you have the right to have your lawyer present during any questioning.

We will need to make that determination. We don’t have Cause of Death yet.