Comment For Nice Quotes

I stomp toward her and point. I've SO had it with her. "That is SO not nice." You don't even talk like a queen." She glares at me. Nick raises an eyebrow at me. "You're a QUEEN?" I walk to the edge of the bed, stand just a few inches away from her. Power rolls off of her. "Okay, please refrain from your insidious comments, which are obviously geared to inflict harm upon my psyche. I do not appreciate it." Nick cracks up. "Well, you ARE the same Zara.

Hello Ra," he said in a kindly voice. "It's been a long time." A feeble voice from behind the chair said,"Can't play. Go away." "would you like a treat?" Apophis asked. "we used to play so nicely together. Every night, trying to kill each other. Don't you remember?" Ra poked his head above the throne. "Treat?" "How about a stuffed date?" Apophis pulled one out of the air. "You used to love stuffed dates, didn't you? All you have to do is come out and let me devour— I mean entertain you." " Want a cookie," Ra said. "What kind?" "Weasel cookie." I'm here to tell you, that comment about weasel cookies probably saved the known universe.

[in response to a jealous comment made by Amber] PJ's mouth snarls open. "If you aren't going to play nice, my thorny little bush, I think you should return to the dirty playground that you crawled from.

I don’t compare myself to anyone else; I don’t make comments about anyone else because they do what feels right for them, and that’s okay by me.

One New Orleans officer who served with Graham commented, “Well, you can call him retired, but the feds like to know he’s around. It’s like having a king snake under the house. They may not see him much, but it’s nice to know he’s there to eat the moccasins.

Gabe says you make a mean chicken." Finn, who is sitting by the fireplace making smoke, comments for the first time. "Well, she certainly doesn't make a nice one.

When a stranger on the street makes a sexual comment, he is making a private assessment of me public. And though I’ve never been seriously worried that I would be attacked, it does make me feel unguarded, unprotected. Regardless of his motive, the stranger on the street makes an assumption based on my physique: He presumes I might be receptive to his unpoetic, unsolicited comments. (Would he allow a friend to say “Nice tits” to his mother? His sister? His daughter?) And although I should know better, I, too, equate my body with my soul and the result, at least sometimes, is a deep shame of both. Rape is a thousand times worse: The ultimate theft of self-control, it often leads to a breakdown in the victim’s sense of self-worth. Girls who are molested, for instance, often go on to engage in risky behavior—having intercourse at an early age, not using contraception, smoking, drinking, and doing drugs. This behavior, it seems to me, is at least in part because their self-perception as autonomous, worthy human beings in control of their environment has been taken from them.

I feel like I'm supposed to make some comment to underscore the ridiculousness of it all, but honestly? It's sort of nice not to have to be cynical for a change. I guess it feels like I'm a part of something.

Such a nice body. She nearly dropped her brush. Will you stop! Just the low velvet touch of his voice sent heat curling through her body. It was sinful and unfair to have such a voice. I did not think you would ever speak with me as a lifemate would. I waited long for that impatient comment.

Uncle Aidan?” Percy began. “Yeah?” “Don’t you think you ought to marry Emma?” Aidan jerked his head up, slamming it against the trunk lid. “FUCK!” he shouted as he saw stars before his eyes. A few more expletives escaped his lips as pain raged through his skull. “Nice mouth you got there,” John chided. Gritting his teeth, Aidan rubbed his aching head. “You mention that one to your mom, and I’ll tell her about your ball-sack comment.” John’s eyes widened. “Dude, that is so not cool!” “Yeah, well, deal with it.” Aidan started to resume gathering up the bags when he noticed Percy staring expectantly at him for an answer. Aidan sighed. “Perce—” His blonde brows knitted together. “Don’t you love her?” “Oh Christ,” Aidan muttered, raking his hand through his hair. He winced as pain once again shot through his head. “Did your mom put you up to this or something?” “No. When I asked her the same question, she just said that you were a cad.” Percy shrugged. “I don’t even know what that means.” “I’m pretty sure it’s a dude who acts like a douchebag to women,” John said. Aidan glared over at John. “I am not a cad!

The sheets and pillows smelled like the sea and citrus. “Oranges,” I murmured. “My shampoo,” Wit murmured back. “I love oranges.” “So you love me.” I giggled. He hadn’t phrased it as a question, and for some reason—lack of sleep, probably—that made me giggle. Really giggle. “You have a nice laugh,” Wit commented. “A nice laugh?” I asked, giggles gone.

Ken was Mary's new boyfriend, a nice guy who made all their friends comments, "Oh, there he is. That's what she's been waiting for," as if finding your perfect match was a guarantee as long as you were patient enough.

At least you got a nice boat out of the deal. Have a good time!

I make a conscious effort to compliment at least one person every time I'm out and about. One nice comment can change a person's entire mood and mindset for the day.

Pretty,” she commented to herself. “Oh, why can’t all people be nice like this scenery and not make trouble?

It's like my throat's caving in on itself. But I have to channel my inner New Yorker - cool and nonchalant. I shoot him a tentative grin. Deep Breath. "That's a big package." And... shit. The words tumblr out. "I don't mean package. Just. Your box. Is big." I hold my hands apart to demonstrate. Because apparently that's the way to prove it's not an innuendo. By spreading my hands out dick-measuringly. Box Boy furrows his brow. "Sorry. I don't... I swear I don't usually comment on the size of other guys' boxes." He meets my eyes and smiles, just a little. "Nice tie," he says.

Cal was dressed in a Hex Hall uniform. The blazer was a little tight on his broad shoulders, more so when he shrugged. "It was mine.Mrs. Casnoff brought it with her. I don't really, uh, do costumes. Figured this was a good compromise." I'd thought no one but Archer could make that uniform look good, but Cal proved me wrong. The bright blue was nice against his tan skin and golden hair, and he looked younger. There was a dimple in his cheek as he smiled at me-something I'd never noticed before. "You make a good Hecate," he said. I would have snorted and made a sarcastic comment, but there was something in his eyes that made me just say, "Thanks.

This is nice,” Dylanna commented. “Almost like old times,” Kamarie said. “Almost,” Oraeyn chuckled, “except we’re not outside in that rain. We’re not hungry, wet, cold, or lost, and there are no enemies chasing us. Except for that, it’s exactly like old times!” Kamarie chuckled. “You left out being terrified out of our minds.

Hypercritical, Shaming Parents Hypercritical and shaming parents send the same message to their children as perfectionistic parents do - that they are never good enough. Parents often deliberately shame their children into minding them without realizing the disruptive impact shame can have on a child's sense of self. Statements such as "You should be ashamed of yourself" or "Shame on you" are obvious examples. Yet these types of overtly shaming statements are actually easier for the child to defend against than are more subtle forms of shaming, such as contempt, humiliation, and public shaming. There are many ways that parents shame their children. These include belittling, blaming, contempt, humiliation, and disabling expectations. -BELITTLING. Comments such as "You're too old to want to be held" or "You're just a cry-baby" are horribly humiliating to a child. When a parent makes a negative comparison between his or her child and another, such as "Why can't you act like Jenny? See how she sits quietly while her mother is talking," it is not only humiliating but teaches a child to always compare himself or herself with peers and find himself or herself deficient by comparison. -BLAMING. When a child makes a mistake, such as breaking a vase while rough-housing, he or she needs to take responsibility. But many parents go way beyond teaching a lesson by blaming and berating the child: "You stupid idiot! Do you think money grows on trees? I don't have money to buy new vases!" The only thing this accomplishes is shaming the child to such an extent that he or she cannot find a way to walk away from the situation with his or her head held high. -CONTEMPT. Expressions of disgust or contempt communicate absolute rejection. The look of contempt (often a sneer or a raised upper lip), especially from someone who is significant to a child, can make him or her feel disgusting or offensive. When I was a child, my mother had an extremely negative attitude toward me. Much of the time she either looked at me with the kind of expectant expression that said, "What are you up to now?" or with a look of disapproval or disgust over what I had already done. These looks were extremely shaming to me, causing me to feel that there was something terribly wrong with me. -HUMILIATION. There are many ways a parent can humiliate a child, such as making him or her wear clothes that have become dirty. But as Gershen Kaufman stated in his book Shame: The Power of Caring, "There is no more humiliating experience than to have another person who is clearly the stronger and more powerful take advantage of that power and give us a beating." I can personally attest to this. In addition to shaming me with her contemptuous looks, my mother often punished me by hitting me with the branch of a tree, and she often did this outside, in front of the neighbors. The humiliation I felt was like a deep wound to my soul. -DISABLING EXPECTATIONS. Parents who have an inordinate need to have their child excel at a particular activity or skill are likely to behave in ways that pressure the child to do more and more. According to Kaufman, when a child becomes aware of the real possibility of failing to meet parental expectations, he or she often experiences a binding self-consciousness. This self-consciousness - the painful watching of oneself - is very disabling. When something is expected of us in this way, attaining the goal is made harder, if not impossible. Yet another way that parents induce shame in their children is by communicating to them that they are a disappointment to them. Such messages as "I can't believe you could do such a thing" or "I am deeply disappointed in you" accompanied by a disapproving tone of voice and facial expression can crush a child's spirit.

Before every meeting, I made an active commitment to myself to make at least one comment, in the meeting besides a simple throwaway line like "Yes" or "That's interesting!

If you ever think or say anything nice about someone, make sure they know.  People can’t read your mind.  Make a call, send a text, leave a comment –

I guess it’s nice to have someone speak in your defense, but in a perfect world, they wouldn’t be frequent commentators on Fox News.

yes the minute we ask you.” The suspect considered this. “But I wants to be a witch,” she wailed. The male Them exchanged exhausted glances. This was out of their league. “If you just say no,” said Pepper, “you can have my Sindy stable set. I’ve never ever used it,” she added, glaring at the other Them and daring them to make a comment. “You have used it,” snapped her sister, “I’ve seen it and it’s all worn out and the bit where you put the hay is broke and—” Adam gave a magisterial cough. “Art thou a witch, viva espana?” he repeated. The sister took a look at Pepper’s face, and decided not to chance it. “No,” she decided.

I Not my best side, I'm afraid. The artist didn't give me a chance to Pose properly, and as you can see, Poor chap, he had this obsession with Triangles, so he left off two of my Feet. I didn't comment at the time (What, after all, are two feet To a monster?) but afterwards I was sorry for the bad publicity. Why, I said to myself, should my conqueror Be so ostentatiously beardless, and ride A horse with a deformed neck and square hoofs? Why should my victim be so Unattractive as to be inedible, And why should she have me literally On a string? I don't mind dying Ritually, since I always rise again, But I should have liked a little more blood To show they were taking me seriously. II It's hard for a girl to be sure if She wants to be rescued. I mean, I quite Took to the dragon. It's nice to be Liked, if you know what I mean. He was So nicely physical, with his claws And lovely green skin, and that sexy tail, And the way he looked at me, He made me feel he was all ready to Eat me. And any girl enjoys that. So when this boy turned up, wearing machinery, On a really dangerous horse, to be honest I didn't much fancy him. I mean, What was he like underneath the hardware? He might have acne, blackheads or even Bad breath for all I could tell, but the dragon-- Well, you could see all his equipment At a glance. Still, what could I do? The dragon got himself beaten by the boy, And a girl's got to think of her future. III I have diplomas in Dragon Management and Virgin Reclamation. My horse is the latest model, with Automatic transmission and built-in Obsolescence. My spear is custom-built, And my prototype armour Still on the secret list. You can't Do better than me at the moment. I'm qualified and equipped to the Eyebrow. So why be difficult? Don't you want to be killed and/or rescued In the most contemporary way? Don't You want to carry out the roles That sociology and myth have designed for you? Don't you realize that, by being choosy, You are endangering job prospects In the spear- and horse-building industries? What, in any case, does it matter what You want? You're in my way. - Not My Best Side

Kiss me." I cleared my throat softly even though a doctor had come in and so everyone had turned to him. "Your family is here." "Don't care, can't feel anything unless you're touching me." That comment again, from before. "When you're better, you'll tell me what that means." "Tell you now." He took a breath. "Other people touch me, it's like nothing. When you do it, it's like electric current on my skin, and it goes right to my heart and other places." "Nice." "You asked." He smiled wickedly; the sarcasm had not been lost on him.

The next day Stapes staged another dinner and I made more mistakes. Commenting on the food wasn’t rude, but it was rustic. The same was true of smelling the wine. And, apparently, the small soft cheese I’d been served possessed a rind. A rind any civilized person would have recognized as inedible and meant to be pared away. Barbarian that I am, I had eaten all of it. It had tasted quite nice too. Still, I took note of this fact and resigned myself to throw away half of a perfectly good cheese if it was set in front of me. Such is the price of civilization.

But it’s not just that it’s not nice, and it’s not just that it’s weak, it’s that it’s impolite, we’re taught. When your cousin posts a misogynistic comment on Facebook, you could YELL AT HIM FOR REPEATING NONSENSE THAT IS NOT MERELY FACTUALLY INCORRECT BUT ALSO MORALLY WRONG OMFG I CAN’T BELIEVE I EVEN STILL HAVE TO SAY THESE THINGS. Then he—and probably several other people—will respond that you might have a point, but he can’t listen to you when you’re so shrill. So angry. You need to make your point more politely if you want to be taken seriously. Be nice, be strong, be polite. No feelings for you.

Listen, we’re going to have to learn to get along if we’re going to be spending the next three months together. So how about a truce? I won’t judge you if you agree not to judge me.” “I don’t make promises that I know I won’t be able to keep. We’ll take it a minute at a time.” “Deal. So let’s start over. I’m Jake Parker, and I’m not the womanizing asshole that the media portrays me as.” “I’m Aubrey Thompson. I am opinionated and downright uncensored. Fair warning.” I shrugged. “Nice to meet you uncensored, opinionated Aubrey. How old are you?” “Twenty-three, almost twenty-four.” “I’m twenty-five, almost twenty-six.” “Well, almost twenty-six year old Jake I’d really like to get back to this.” I held my e-reader up. “I like you Aubrey. I can tell by your sarcastic undertones, rude comments and sheer lack of common decency that we’re going to friends in no time. I can just tell.” “Whatever you say, Boss.” I grumbled.

I was taught to say nothing about another person’s appearance if I can’t find a way to say something nice, so I’ll say that of all the other persons I’ve encountered in my years, Peg McMoughin was one of them. She had the usual number of arms, legs, and head, none of which warrant further comment. She wore clothes.

Jo tried to think about her suspicion that Lynn liked her. She figured that Lynn was nice to her because she was a patient. Jo's mother had shown her what it meant to have a professional mask. The times Jo saw her mother at work in the lab, busy and efficient as she drew blood and marked vials. Nancy smiled warmly at the patients, ready with a sympathetic comment. If a patient or a doctor called Nancy at home, she immediately became the caring professional, no matter what had been happening before the phone rang. When Lynn hung up after an evening phone call from Missy, Jo suspected that Lynn resumed screaming at her husband or kids.

This is why when we get compliments from others, we have a hard time accepting them. “Oh, they’re just trying to be nice,” we think. The secret is to always stay connected to that part of us that others see and comment on, because the way others see us, their version of us—not our own myopic, dystopian version—is the real us.

Again and again he would lie down at her feet; only to waken presently with a thunderous growl and a snarl, and with a lunge of bared teeth at her caressing hand. The hand would continue to caress; and his show of fury was met with a laugh and with a comment: "You've had a good sleep, and now you've waked up in a nice homicidal rage.

The Hitler War was my grandfather’s war; my father’s war – his and Uncle George’s – was Korea, which may have been just as well: George is famous for, amongst other superbly unselfconscious comments, his observation that France is a surprisingly nice bit of country, and the French, more agreeable than is commonly supposed, but the food, sadly, very French.

Is anyone else coming?” I asked him when he didn’t say anything after setting his glass back down on the table. I’d overheard a couple of the guys talking about Rip’s half-hearted invitation when I had taken a bathroom break, but I hadn’t heard more than that. His gaze hadn’t left mine from the moment he had spotted me, and it didn’t go anywhere as he shrugged and said, “Doubt it.” I must have made a face because he added, casually, “I’m not exactly anybody’s favorite, Luna.” The smile fell right off my mouth, and I couldn’t help but frown at him. At the harshness of his words. At the… fact-like nature of them. That wasn’t very nice for him to assume. That wasn’t very nice to assume at all, and it bothered me… even if it was true that Mr. Cooper was my favorite person at the shop. And I was his. And Miguel’s— Crap. “I’m sure—“ I started before getting cut off. “I’m not,” he told me, tapping his short fingernails against the glass. Rip tipped his chin up a millimeter, giving me a slightly better view of the shading tucked up against his jawline. He swallowed, everything about his body language saying that he was telling me these words in this way because it wasn’t a big deal to him. He didn’t care. Why should he? His body said. His next words confirmed it. “I’m not around to be anybody’s friend.” All righty then. I wanted to tell him something that would make it seem that it wasn’t like anyone hated him or disliked him. Most of the guys were just… wary. Even I was wary, and he didn’t scare or intimidate me… unless I screwed up. But I didn’t know what to say to that comment. I hated liars as much as I hated aggressive drunk people and cooked carrots. So I did the only thing I could think of: I smiled at him and shrugged. He didn’t look even a little put out or hurt by what he’d been saying. Who was I to make it a big deal if he claimed he didn’t care? “Did you like your cake?

Spider?” I’d said, with a question mark in my voice. “Yeah.” “You know at school . . . what did you do that for? Wade in like that?” Spider frowned. “He was disrespectful, Jem. What you said—I could tell it was real. It was what you were really feeling. He had no right to make a joke of it.” “Yeah, I know, he’s a tosser, but it’s nothing to do with you. You made a right show of yourself. You made a show of me.” “I didn’t want him to get away with it.” “Yeah, but I don’t need a knight in shining armor. I can look after myself.” He was smiling a bit now. I paused. “It’s not funny, man. It’s made everything worse,” I said quietly. “I’ve got comments all the time now, ‘bout you and me. Sly comments.” He looked away, studied his hands. The knuckles on the right one were nearly healed up now. My mouth had gone dry, but I had to get this clear with him. “You do know there’s no ‘you and me,’ don’t you, Spider?” He looked up. “What?” “We’re not like . . . together. Just mates.” There was something about his sullenness when he said, “Yeah, ‘course. Just mates. Mates is good,” that made me think he felt the exact opposite. I was churning inside, cursing that day under the bridge. People were so bloody difficult. Why had I ever got involved? He stood up, came toward me, putting an arm out. I thought, Shit, he’s going to hug me. Hasn’t he listened to anything? But his hand formed a fist, and he lightly punched my arm. “Listen, man, I know what you’re like. I’ve told you I’ll never say nothing nice to you. And now you’ve put my straight, I’ll never do nothing nice for you, either. OK? If someone disrespects you, I’ll let them. If you’re being mugged on the street, I’ll walk on by. If I see you on fire, I won’t even piss on you. OK?

Dad was not enjoying himself very much either, as is evident from this comment to his mother and sister: “We had a nice time at the Fair if you can call it a nice time to be followed around by thirty newsmen and photographers everywhere and to be mobbed every time an appearance is made . . . I had to ride in an open car and give ‘em a Cheshire Cat grin and almost freeze stiff but the onlookers seemed to enjoy it.” From the fair Dad drove to Reelfoot Lake

Everybody needs somebody. Sorry. If you were thinking you could get through life completely on your own, you're wrong. It's a proven fact that people need people. Sure, there are those who try to stuff their lives full of cats in an effort to fill the void, but, for the most part, people thrive, live, and do better if their existences are full of interaction with other humans. Some people find people to interact with at school. Some people run with people they meet at church. Work is a half-decent place to find acquaintances. Or maybe one day last May you were flying a kite in Central Park and a couple of nice people commented on how high the kite was, and that sparked a conversation that led to the three of you having dinner together at a small restaurant in Times Square and then catching a Broadway show about friendly cats. That could have happened -- which just goes to show you that, either way, you are going to end up surround by cats. Let's hope you're not allergic.

She went over to where the kitchen phone sat, picked up the receiver and dialled a number she had dialled approximately several thousand times. 'Hey bozo, meet me, usual place, just as soon as.' She replaced the receiver. 'And they say the art of conversation is dead,' commented Hitch, shaking out the newspaper. Mrs Digby looked at Ruby and shook her head. It's a crying shame,' she said. 'All life's good manners and fine etiquette gone to the pot. I tried to raise this child a nice child, but I probably got to accept failure here.

Some have argued that capitalism promotes democracy, because of common norms of transparency, rule of law, and free competition—for markets, for ideas, for votes. In some idealized world, capitalism may enhance democracy, but in the history of the West, democracy has expanded by limiting the power of capitalists. When that project fails, dark forces are often unleashed. In the twentieth century, capitalism coexisted nicely with dictatorships, which conveniently create friendly business climates and repress independent worker organizations. Western capitalists have enriched and propped up third-world despots who crush local democracy. Hitler had a nice understanding with German corporations and bankers, who thrived until the unfortunate miscalculation of World War II. Communist China works hand in glove with its capitalist business partners to destroy free trade unions and to preserve the political monopoly of the Party. Vladimir Putin presides over a rigged brand of capitalism and governs in harmony with kleptocrats. When push comes to shove, the story that capitalism and democracy are natural complements is a myth. Corporations are happy to make a separate peace with dictators—and short of that, to narrow the domain of civic deliberation even in democracies. After Trump’s election, we saw corporations standing up for immigrants and saluting the happy rainbow of identity politics, but lining up to back Trump’s program of gutting taxes and regulation. Some individual executives belatedly broke with Trump over his racist comments, but not a single large company has resisted the broad right-wing assault on democracy that began long before Trump, and all have been happy with the dismantling of regulation. If democracy is revived, the movement will come from empowered citizens, not from corporations.

Being funny really is like a superpower because you can control situations with an offhand comment or wisecrack that kinda just falls from your brainpan without much effort. But like the Spider-Man so often says, with great power comes great responsibility and when you've got this talent that allows you to break down a person or event to their core essence that can make everyone else dissolve into peals of laughter, you carry a huge responsibility. It generally takes burgeoning comedians a while to learn the difference between being funny and just being mean and shitty. There's a learning curve, and it's an important one.

There,he reminds me of you." Shelby indicated a black panther stretched in a path of sunlight, calmly watching the river of people who passed by. "Is that so?" Alan studied the cat. "Indolent? Subdued?" Shelby let out her smoke-edged laugh. "Oh,no, Senator.Patient, brooding. And arrogant enough to believe this confinement is nothing he can't work with." Turning, she leaned back against the barrier to consider Alan as she had considered the panther. "He's taken stock of the situation,and decided he can pretty much have his own way as things are.I wonder..." Her brows drew together inn concentration. "I wonder just what he'd do if he were really crossed.He doesn't appear to have a temper. Cats usually don't until they're pushed too far just that one time, and then-they're deadly." Alan gave her an odd smile before he took her hand to draw her toward the path again. "He normally sees that he's not often crossed." Shelby tossed her head and met the smile with a bland look. "Let's go look at the monkeys.It always makes me think I'm sitting in the Senate Gallery." "Nasty," he commented and tugged on her hair. "I know.I couldn't help it." Briefly she rested her head on his shoulder as they walked. "I'm often not a nice person. Grant and I both seem to have inherited a streak of sarcasm-or maybe it's cynicism.

Is there a bird among them, dear boy?” Charity asked innocently, peering not at the things on the desk, but at his face, noting the muscle beginning to twitch at Ian’s tense jaw. “No.” “Then they must be in the schoolroom! Of course,” she said cheerfully, “that’s it. How like me, Hortense would say, to have made such a silly mistake.” Ian dragged his eyes from the proof that his grandfather had been keeping track of him almost from the day of his birth-certainly from the day when he was able to leave the cottage on his own two legs-to her face and said mockingly, “Hortense isn’t very perceptive. I would say you are as wily as a fox.” She gave him a little knowing smile and pressed her finger to her lips. “Don’t tell her, will you? She does so enjoy thinking she is the clever one.” “How did he manage to have these drawn?” Ian asked, stopping her as she turned away. “A woman in the village near your home drew many of them. Later he hired an artist when he knew you were going to be somewhere at a specific time. I’ll just leave you here where it’s nice and quiet.” She was leaving him, Ian knew, to look through the items on the desk. For a long moment he hesitated, and then he slowly sat down in the chair, looking over the confidential reports on himself. They were all written by one Mr. Edgard Norwich, and as Ian began scanning the thick stack of pages, his anger at his grandfather for this outrageous invasion of his privacy slowly became amusement. For one thing, nearly every letter from the investigator began with phrases that made it clear the duke had chastised him for not reporting in enough detail. The top letter began, I apologize, Your Grace, for my unintentional laxness in failing to mention that indeed Mr. Thornton enjoys an occasional cheroot… The next one opened with, I did not realize, Your Grace, that you would wish to know how fast his horse ran in the race-in addition to knowing that he won. From the creases and holds in the hundreds of reports it was obvious to Ian that they’d been handled and read repeatedly, and it was equally obvious from some of the investigator’s casual comments that his grandfather had apparently expressed his personal pride to him: You will be pleased to know, Your Grace, that young Ian is a fine whip, just as you expected… I quite agree with you, as do many others, that Mr. Thornton is undoubtedly a genius… I assure you, Your Grace, that your concern over that duel is unfounded. It was a flesh wound in the arm, nothing more. Ian flipped through them at random, unaware that the barricade he’d erected against his grandfather was beginning to crack very slightly. “Your Grace,” the investigator had written in a rare fit of exasperation when Ian was eleven, “the suggestion that I should be able to find a physician who might secretly look at young Ian’s sore throat is beyond all bounds of reason. Even if I could find one who was willing to pretend to be a lost traveler, I really cannot see how he could contrive to have a peek at the boy’s throat without causing suspicion!” The minutes became an hour, and Ian’s disbelief increased as he scanned the entire history of his life, from his achievements to his peccadilloes. His gambling gains and losses appeared regularly; each ship he added to his fleet had been described, and sketches forwarded separately; his financial progress had been reported in minute and glowing detail.

She seemed nice, but she was most likely one of those American women whose knowledge of Africa was based largely on movies and National Geographic and thirdhand information from someone who knew someone who had been to somewhere on the continent, usually Kenya or South Africa. Whenever Jende met such women (at Liomi’s school; at Marcus Garvey Park; in the livery cab he used to drive), they often said something like, oh my God, I saw this really crazy show about such-and-such in Africa. Or, my cousin/friend/neighbor used to date an African man, and he was a really nice guy. Or, even worse, if they asked him where in Africa he was from and he said Cameroon, they proceeded to tell him that a friend’s daughter once went to Tanzania or Uganda. This comment used to irk him until Winston gave him the perfect response: Tell them your friend’s uncle lives in Toronto. Which was what he now did every time someone mentioned some other African country in response to him saying he was from Cameroon. Oh yeah, he would say in response to something said about Senegal, I watched a show the other day about San Antonio. Or, one day I hope to visit Montreal. Or, I hear Miami is a nice city. And every time he did this, he cracked up inside as the Americans’ faces scrunched up in confusion because they couldn’t understand what Toronto/San Antonio/Montreal/Miami had to do with New York.

Walking home's going to be...interesting half dressed." Alan mused as he dropped the shirt over the lip of the sink. Shelby shot a look over her shoulder, but the retort she had in mind slipped away from her.He was lean enough so she could have counted his ribs, but there was a sense of power and endurance in the breadth of his chest and shoulders, the streamlined waist. His body made her forget any other man she'd ever seen. It had been he,she realized all at once, whom she'd been thinking of when she'd thrown the clay into that clean-lined bowl. Shelby let the first flow of arousal rush through her because it was as sweet as it was sharp. Then she tensed against it, rendering it a distant throb she could control. "You're in excellent shape," she commented lightly. "You should be able to make it to P street in under three minutes at a steady jog." "Shelby, that's downright unfriendly." "I thought it was more rude," she corrected as she struggled against a grin. "I suppose I could be a nice guy and throw it in the dryer for you." "It was your clay." "It was your move," she reminded him, but snatched up the damp shirt. "Okay, come on upstairs." With one hand, she tugged off her work apron, tossing it aside as she breezed through the doorway. "I suppose you're entitled to one drink on the house." "You're all heart," Alan murmured as he followed her up the stairs. "My reputation for generosity precedes me.

For the first time in my life, I’m being sent home with weekly progress reports that I have to give to my father. The reports are written by Mrs. Leibler and read and signed by Mrs. Kushel, which is my teachers’ way of saying that they’re in agreement about my behavior. The reports list all my notable behaviors for Monday through Friday. Some of the comments are nice such as the ones about when I participate appropriately in a classroom discussion. But most of the comments make my father slam the reports on the table and say, “Rose, for God’s sake. Keep your mouth closed when you think of a homonym” or “Do you see any of the other kids clapping their hands over their ears and screaming when they hear the fire alarm?

I sure do like this sculpture.” Jolene smiled at the newcomer. “Well, hello, Lou.” The Devil sent her a narrow-eyed look. “Hello, vile woman.” “You buttoned up your shirt wrong,” Jolene told him. “What?” he squeaked, peeking down at the shirt. Realizing she was kidding, he flattened his lips. “See, vile.” Jolene rolled her eyes. “Let it go, Lou.” Sensing there was more to this than the shirt comment, Harper asked, “Let what go? What did you do, Grams?” Jolene tipped her chin at Lou. “He was in a bad mood, so thought I’d take him to a nice, calming atmosphere to cheer him up. Only there is no cheering him up.” Harper wasn’t buying that innocent act for a single second. “Where did you take him?” “To a poetry recital.” Lou’s face hardened. “The words hardly ever rhymed! How is that poetry?” And it clearly drove his OCD streak crazy.

I drop the phone in my lap and stare at him. “What?” he asks. “Who are you? I mean . . . you have hundreds of comments in a matter of seconds about milk-shake man and his wife.” “What are people saying?” I check again. The numbers are already way up. “Really nice things.” I scroll and hardly know what to read aloud, because the sheer volume of comments is overwhelming. I read, “‘I’ve always wanted to do something like this. Good for them. Hope they rock it out.’ Lots like that. Someone wants to know the name of the store and when they’ll be opening. Another person says . . .” I squint and then giggle. “She says that the milk-shake dude is crazy hot, and she’s single, in case his wife ends up hating milk-shake life and runs off to Barbados with the ice-cream delivery boy.” “Well, that would be a sad ending to an otherwise inspiring story.

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

Dale, a Plutonian Dreg Bug, the kind with seventeen eyes and a bad temper, got nailed in one of his eyes by a wild dart. Fight broke out when he punched Earl in the nose. Earl’s nose is very sensitive, hell it’s how he sees, sort of. Earl plopped down on the floor crying when a Flying Mugwhap flew over and ate Dale’s eye. Dale grabbed the Mugwhap and squeezed a good deal of the life out of it before the bouncer stopped him. Karen, the bouncer, is a reticulated Hive Mother, and a mean mother when she’s pissed off. She walked over and flicked Dale upside his head. That flick knocked Dale out cold, and cost him two more eyes when he hit the wall. She helped Earl up and bought him a drink. A nasty drink by all the comments I’ve heard. Something between varnish and the stuff people get in the corners of their mouths with a nice aftertaste of silver polish. Earl seemed to like it though.

They seem nice.” Zane raised his eyebrows. “Sure. Skinny, starving kids. I can hardly wait for the rest of the folks to turn up. Maybe we’ll have a rock star next. Or some business executive who wants to bring his laptop along so he can work while riding.” She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she ignored his comments. “Thanks for letting the kids go get something to eat.” His gaze narrowed. “What has Maya told you about me?” The only thing she could think of was her friend’s claim that Zane looked like Adam Levine. “Ah, what do you mean?” “You’re surprised that I wouldn’t want kids to starve. I figured she’d claimed I was a jerk, but it sounds like she’s also telling you that I’m mean to children.” “No, nothing like that.” She took a step back. “Maya thinks you’re a little, you know, uptight maybe.” His expression hardened, and she wanted to suck back the words. “But not in a bad way.” “Right.

You're really good." That one got away from me. "Your drawing, I mean." He shrugged. "Not really. Besides, what difference does it make? It's not like I'm going to do anything with it. What's the point...?" He winced. "Jeez, I'm sorry.You're probably heading for MoMA via the Sorbonne and Bennington." "NYU if I'm really really lucky." I smiled, letting him off the hook. I still couldn't quite wrap my head around the fact that I was bantering with Alex Bainbridge. "After that, not a clue. You?" "Yale,then Powel Law." No With Luck or I hope or even If all goes as decreed. "Wow.It must be nice to be so certain in your path." I didn't mean to snound snide.I really didn't. "No starviing artistry in your future,that's for sure." Occasional stupid Mafia comments aside, Alex is no dummy. "It must be nice to be so certain in your convictions. No moral low road for you, that's for sure." I felt myself blushing, felt that Blood Surge of Humiliation beginning.

At the heart of every child is the need for play. Play is important for creativity, learning, and interacting with peers. But it’s also the way children communicate. If we want to show our children we love them, we need to play with them. Play is the magical portal to connection. Playing with our children isn’t about enjoying the activity as much as it is about connecting with them. Much as with love languages or personality types, understanding how our children play is critical. Author and psychologist Lawrence J. Cohen, the author of Playful Parenting, wrote, “Play is important, not just because children do so much of it, but because there are layers and layers of meaning to even the most casual play.” He pointed out the various layers of a father and son playing catch—from developing hand-eye coordination and the joy of learning a new skill to the bonding time the two are sharing. “The rhythm of the ball flying back and forth is a bridge,” Cohen wrote, “reestablishing a deep connection between adult and child; and comments like ‘good try’ and ‘nice catch’ build confidence and trust.

As the steak sizzled, she removed an envelope from her apron pocket. “While that’s cooking, I wanted to share with you all a letter I received from Nanette Harrison in Long Beach. Nanette writes, ‘Dear Mrs. Zott, I’m a vegetarian. It’s not for religious reasons—it’s just that I don’t think it’s very nice to eat living things. My husband says the body needs meat and I’m being stupid, but I just hate thinking an animal has given up its life for me. Jesus did that and look what happened to him. Sincerely yours, Mrs. Nanette Harrison, Long Beach, California.’ “Nanette, you’ve brought up an interesting point,” Elizabeth said. “What we eat has consequences for other living things. However, plants are living things too, and yet we rarely consider that they are still alive even as we chop them to bits, crush them with our molars, force them down our esophagi, and then digest them in our stomachs filled with hydrochloric acid. In short, I applaud you, Nanette. You think before you eat. But make no mistake, you’re still actively taking life to sustain your own. There is no way around this. As for Jesus, no comment.

You look nice,” he commented, before thanking her for the wine and making his way outside to the porch. Grateful he had turned away and so couldn’t see her blush, she fussed about in the kitchen for a while, preparing a dressing for the side salad, adding a few chopped herbs as an afterthought. Happy that all was well, she joined him, looking forward to another evening of lighthearted chat. “I thought we’d eat out here tonight, if that’s okay. It’s a lovely evening. We should make the most of it,” she said as she drew up a chair opposite him. “Definitely,” he replied, staring out toward Gull Rock. “Beautiful,” she sighed, realizing too late she was still looking at him as she spoke. Averting her eyes, she added, “The view, I mean.” “Oh, so not me?” he joked, one eyebrow raised in challenge. Recovering quickly, she grinned back. “You’re okay, I guess. Not my type, but I’m sure there’s plenty out there who’ll appreciate you.” “Thanks very much.” He appeared somewhat crestfallen. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.” “A bit of both, I think.” She winked, before heading back to the kitchen to bring dinner out.

When I arrived Dad was at home. He was in the laundry room at the bottom of the house. He turned to me, anger in every movement. “I picked you some flowers,” I said. He reached out with his hand, took them, and threw them in the large sink. “Little girls pick flowers,” he said. He was right. And he was probably ashamed of me. Once some of his colleagues had come home and they had seen me on the stairs, with my blond hair quite long, because it was winter, and I was wearing red long johns. “What a nice girl you’ve got,” one of them said. “It’s a boy,” Dad answered. He had smiled, but I knew him well enough to know the comment had not gladdened his heart. There was my interest in clothes, my crying if I didn’t get the shoes I wanted, my crying if it was too cold when we were in the boat on the sea, indeed my crying if he raised his voice in situations when it would have been absolutely normal to raise your voice. Was it so strange he thought: what kind of son have I got here? I was a mama’s boy, he was constantly telling me. I was, too. I longed for her. And no one was happier than I when she moved back for good at the end of the month.

Meet people properly: It all starts with the introduction. Exchange contact information. Make sure you can pronounce everyone’s names. Find things you have in common: You can almost always find something in common with another person, and from there, it’s much easier to address issues where you have differences. Sports cut across boundaries of race and wealth. And if nothing else, we all have the weather in common. Try for optimal meeting conditions: Make sure no one is hungry, cold or tired. Meet over a meal if you can; food softens a meeting. That’s why they “do lunch” in Hollywood. Let everyone talk: Don’t finish someone’s sentences. And talking louder or faster doesn’t make your idea any better. Check egos at the door: When you discuss ideas, label them and write them down. The label should be descriptive of the idea, not the originator: “the bridge story” not “Jane’s story.” Praise each other: Find something nice to say, even if it’s a stretch. The worst ideas can have silver linings if you look hard enough. Phrase alternatives as questions: Instead of “I think we should do A, not B,” try “What if we did A, instead of B?” That allows people to offer comments rather than defend one choice. At

Harper walked over to her reception desk. “What’s with the Tyson look-alikes out there? I almost couldn’t get in here.” Pixie frowned. “Better go ask your boy-o. Famous rock star in the house.” Pixie accentuated her comment with the poke of her pen. Jeez, he was huge. And built. And shirtless. Okay, enough staring. Well, maybe just for another second. Trent was leaning over the guy, and she could tell from the wide-reaching spread of purple transfer lines that he was just beginning a sleeve on the other man’s lower arm. The guy in the chair might well be a rock star— although Harper would never admit she had no clue who he was— but he was wincing. Harper could totally feel for him. Trent was in his usual position— hat on backward, gloves on, and perched on a stool. Harper approached them nervously. The big guy’s size and presence were a little intimidating. “I don’t bite.” Oh God. He was talking to her. “Excuse me?” He sucked air in between clenched teeth. “I said I don’t bite. You can come closer.” His blue eyes were sparkling as he studied her closely. Trent looked up. “Hey, darlin’,” he said, putting the tattoo machine down and reaching for her hand. “Dred, this is my girl, Harper. Harper, this is Dred Zander from the band Preload. He’s one of the other judges I told you about.” Wow. Not that she knew much about the kind of music that Trent listened to, but even she had heard of Preload. That certainly explained the security outside. Dred reached out his hand and shook hers. “Nice to meet you, Harper. And a pity. For a minute, I thought you were coming over to see me.” “No,” Harper exclaimed quickly, looking over at Trent, who was grinning at her. “I mean, no, I was just bringing Trent some cookies.” Holy shit. Was she really that lame? It was like that moment in Dirty Dancing when Baby told Johnny she carried a watermelon. Dred turned and smiled enigmatically at Trent. “I see what you mean, man.” “Give.” Smiling, Trent held out his hand. Reaching inside her bag, she pulled out the cookies and handed the container to him. “Seriously, dude, she’s the best fucking cook on the planet.” Trent paused to take a giant bite. “You got to try one,” he mumbled, offering the container over. Harper watched, mortified, as a modern-day rock legend bit into one of her cookies. Dred chewed and groaned. “These are almost as good as sex.” Harper laughed. “Not quite,” Trent responded, giving her a look that made her burn. “You should try her pot roast. Could bring a grown man to his knees.

As the steak sizzled, she removed an envelope from her apron pocket. “While that’s cooking, I wanted to share with you all a letter I received from Nanette Harrison in Long Beach. Nanette writes, ‘Dear Mrs. Zott, I’m a vegetarian. It’s not for religious reasons—it’s just that I don’t think it’s very nice to eat living things. My husband says the body needs meat and I’m being stupid, but I just hate thinking an animal has given up its life for me. Jesus did that and look what happened to him. Sincerely yours, Mrs. Nanette Harrison, Long Beach, California.’ “Nanette, you’ve brought up an interesting point,” Elizabeth said. “What we eat has consequences for other living things. However, plants are living things too, and yet we rarely consider that they are still alive even as we chop them to bits, crush them with our molars, force them down our esophagi, and then digest them in our stomachs filled with hydrochloric acid. In short, I applaud you, Nanette. You think before you eat. But make no mistake, you’re still actively taking life to sustain your own. There is no way around this. As for Jesus, no comment.” She turned and, jabbing the steak out of the pan, the dripping juices a bloody red, looked directly into the camera. “And now a word from our sponsor.

Unfortunately, the Hospital Fund Raising Committee, to which Elizabeth was assigned, spent most of its time mired down in petty trivialities and rarely made a decision on anything. In a fit of bored frustration, Elizabeth finally asked Ian to step into their drawing room one day, while the committee was meeting there, and to give them the benefit of his expertise. “And,” she laughingly warned him in the privacy of his study when he agreed to join them, “no matter how they prose on about every tiny, meaningless expenditure-which they will-promise me you won’t point out to them that you could build six hospitals with less effort and time.” “Could I do that?” he asked, grinning. “Absolutely!” She sighed. “Between them, they must have half the money in Europe, yet they debate about every shilling to be spent as if it were coming out of their own reticules and likely to send them to debtors’ gaol.” “If they offend your thrifty sensibilities, they must be a rare group,” Ian teased. Elizabeth gave him a distracted smile, but when they neared the drawing room, where the committee was drinking tea in Ian’s priceless Sevres china cups, she turned to him and added hastily, “Oh, and don’t comment on Lady Wiltshire’s blue hat.” “Why not?” “Because it’s her hair.” “I wouldn’t do such a thing,” he protested, grinning at her. “Yes, you would!” she whispered, trying to frown and chuckling instead. “The dowager duchess told me that, last night, you complimented the furry dog Lady Shirley had draped over her arm.” “Madam, I was following your specific instructions to be nice to the eccentric old harridan. Why shouldn’t I have complimented her dog?” “Because it was a new fur muff of a rare sort, of which she was extravagantly proud.” “There is no fur on earth that mangy, Elizabeth,” he replied with an impenitent grin. “She’s hoaxing the lot of you,” he added seriously. Elizabeth swallowed a startled laugh and said with an imploring look, “Promise me you’ll be very nice, and very patient with the committee.” “I promise,” he said gravely, but when she reached for the door handle and opened the door-when it was too late to step back and yank it closed-he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Did you know a camel is the only animal invented by a committee, which is why it turned out the way it has?” If the committee was surprised to see the formerly curt and irascible Marquess of Kensington stroll into their midst wearing a beatific smile worth of a choir boy, they were doubtlessly shocked to see his wife’s hands clamped over her face and her eyes tearing with mirth.

What an extraordinary creature," Win heard Dr. Harrow murmur nearby. She followed his gaze to the lady of the house, Mrs. Annabelle Hunt, who was greeting guests. Although Win had never met Mrs. Hunt, she recognized her from descriptions she had heard. Mrs. Hunt was said to be one of the greatest beauties of England, with her beautifully turned figure and heavily lashed blue eyes, and hair that gleamed with rich shades of honey and gold. But it was her luminous, lively expressiveness that made her truly engaging. "That's her husband, standing next to her," Poppy murmured. "He's intimidating, but very nice." "I beg to differ," Leo said. "You don't think he's intimidating?" Win asked. "I don't think he's nice. Whenever I happen to be in the same room as his wife, he looks at me as if he'd like to dismember me." "Well," Poppy said prosaically, "one can't fault his judgment." She leaned toward Win and said, "Mr. Hunt is besotted with his wife. Their marriage is a love match, you see." "How unfashionable," Dr. Harrow commented with a grin. "He even dances with her," Beatrix told Win, "which husbands and wives are never supposed to do. But considering Mr. Hunt's fortune, people find reasons to excuse him for such behavior." "See how small her waist is," Poppy murmured to Win. "And that's after three children- two of them very large boys.

1. At dawn, when you have trouble getting out of bed, tell yourself: “I have to go to work—as a human being. What do I have to complain of, if I’m going to do what I was born for—the things I was brought into the world to do? Or is this what I was created for? To huddle under the blankets and stay warm?” —But it’s nicer here.… So you were born to feel “nice”? Instead of doing things and experiencing them? Don’t you see the plants, the birds, the ants and spiders and bees going about their individual tasks, putting the world in order, as best they can? And you’re not willing to do your job as a human being? Why aren’t you running to do what your nature demands? —But we have to sleep sometime.… Agreed. But nature set a limit on that—as it did on eating and drinking. And you’re over the limit. You’ve had more than enough of that. But not of working. There you’re still below your quota. You don’t love yourself enough. Or you’d love your nature too, and what it demands of you. People who love what they do wear themselves down doing it, they even forget to wash or eat. Do you have less respect for your own nature than the engraver does for engraving, the dancer for the dance, the miser for money or the social climber for status? When they’re really possessed by what they do, they’d rather stop eating and sleeping than give up practicing their arts. Is helping others less valuable to you? Not worth your effort? 2. To shrug it all off and wipe it clean—every annoyance and distraction—and reach utter stillness. Child’s play. 3. If an action or utterance is appropriate, then it’s appropriate for you. Don’t be put off by other people’s comments and criticism. If it’s right to say or do it, then it’s the right thing for you to do or say.

Are you sorry it happened?” Her fingers clenched as she waited tensely for his answer. “Good Lord, no.” He brought her small fist to his mouth and kissed it open, and flattened her palm against the side of his face. “It’s what I’ve wanted most in my entire life. And the one thing I knew I could never have. I’m surprised. Shocked, even. But never sorry.” Daisy turned and snuggled against him, sandwiching one of his thighs between her own. The rain beat out a brisk song against the side of the house, some of it coming through the window. Considering the idea of getting out of bed, Daisy shivered a little, and felt Matthew draw the covers higher over her bare shoulder. “Daisy,” he asked without heat, “where is the damn key?” “I put it in your coat pocket,” she said helpfully. “Didn’t you see? No?…well, I suppose you were distracted at the time.” She trailed her hand over his chest, letting her palm graze the point of his nipple. “You’re probably angry with me for locking us in the bedroom.” “Enraged,” he agreed. “I insist you do it every night after we’re married.” “Are we going to get married?” Daisy whispered, raising her head. His eyes were warm, but there was no hint of pleasure in his voice. “Yes, we’re going to marry. Although you’ll probably hate me for it someday.” “Why in the world would I…oh.” Daisy remembered what he had told her about the likelihood of his past catching up to him someday. “I could never hate you,” she said. “And I’m not afraid of your secrets, Matthew. Whatever comes, I’ll face it with you. Although you should know I find it exasperating when you throw out comments like that and refuse to explain.” There was a sudden catch of laughter in his chest. “That’s only one of many reasons you find me exasperating.” “True.” She crawled on top of him and nuzzled his chest like an inquisitive kitten. “But I like exasperating men much more than the nice ones.

The driver, whose name was Chase, pulled up in a silver Honda. He was cute, with a gap in his front two teeth—maybe age twenty-six at most. He looked like he was trying to grow a mustache, and his brown hair was past his ears under a baseball cap that read FML. He babbled that he was an actor, or was trying to become one. His favorite philosophy about acting was Uta Hagen’s, something about being a student of humanity. Well, for a student of humanity he was shitty at reading people. In my head I just kept saying, Shut up, shut up! I wanted to say, Don’t you know I am dying? But even in my dying I couldn’t be mean to him for fear that he would think I was a bitch. Why did I even care what he thought? Was my death unimportant? How could I prioritize the feelings of this vacant, mustached kid over my own—me, who was probably dying? I repeated, “That’s nice” and “Oh, interesting,” and lay down in the backseat. I didn’t announce that I would be laying down, I just did it. He wasn’t paying any attention to what I was doing, instead going on about an upcoming audition for a prescription allergy medication where he would play the son-in-law of a woman with adult allergies. He said he had mixed feelings about it, because he didn’t want to limit his range to pharmaceuticals. The part he really wanted was an audition for Samsung next week. He was trying out to play the phone. “It’s not easy to make it in this town. I’m going up against two hundred other potential phones, at least,” he said, looking in the mirror at the traffic behind him. I noticed he had green eyes. He really was cute. I waited for him to comment on me lying supine in his backseat, but he didn’t ask if I was okay. I suppose this was normal behavior in California. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing. I wasn’t dead. I was breathing in the back of this cute idiot’s car. When we pulled up at Annika’s house, he stopped and said, “Okay, we’re here. Wish me luck at Samsung!” I opened my eyes and squinted at him. I wanted to tell him that I hoped he never got a part.

Ironically,” she commented, “this will be the first time I’ve ever done anything to please my father.” With a sympathetic murmur, Matthew gathered Daisy close against him. He knew her father as well as anyone, having become well acquainted with the man’s tempers, his self-absorption, his impossible standards. And yet he understood what it had required for Bowman to build a great fortune from scratch, the sacrifices he’d had to make. Bowman had discarded everything that would have gotten in the way of achieving his goals. Including closeness with his wife and children. For the first time it occurred to Matthew that Bowman and his family would benefit from someone acting as a mediator, to ease their communications with each other. If such a thing were in his power, he would find a way to do it. “You,” he whispered in Daisy’s hair, “are the best thing he’s ever done. Someday he’ll realize that.” He felt her smile against his skin. “I doubt it. But it’s nice of you to say so. You don’t have to be concerned on that account, you know. I reconciled myself to the way he was a long time ago.” Once again Matthew was taken unaware by the extent of the feelings she inspired in him, his own limitless desire to fill her with happiness. “Whatever you need,” he whispered, “Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you. Just tell me.” Daisy stretched comfortably, a pleasant shiver running through her limbs. She touched his lips with her fingers, tracing the smoothness. “I want to know what your five-dollar wish was for.” “Is that all?” He smiled beneath her exploring fingertips. “I wished you would find someone who wanted you as much as I did. But I knew it wouldn’t come true.” The candlelight slid over Daisy’s delicate features as she raised her head to look at him. “Why not?” “Because I knew no one could ever want you as much as I do.” Daisy levered herself farther over him until her hair tumbled in a dark curtain around them both. “What was your wish?” Matthew asked, combing his fingers through the fall of shimmering hair. “That I could find the right man to marry.” Her tender smile stopped his heart. “And then you appeared.

I’m sorry, I should have realized you’d be hungry. If you let me give you intravenous fluids, it would help.” The moment she put the glass down, she retreated to her computer desk. He ignored her comment. Why do you not feed? The question was asked casually, curiously. His black eyes were thoughtful as he studied her. From her position of safety across the room, Shea watched him. The weight of his gaze alone broke her concentration, took her breath away. She was feeling far too possessive of this patient. She had no right to tangle her life around his. It was frightening that she was reacting so uncharacteristically to him. She had always felt aloof, remote, detached from people and things around her. Her analytical mind simply computed facts. But right now, she could think only of him, his pain and suffering, the way his eyes watched her, half-closed, sexy. Shea nearly jumped out of her skin. Where had that thought come from? Knowing she wouldn’t want to think he was reading her mind at that precise moment, Jacques did the gentlemanly thing and pretended merely a casual interest. It was nice to know she found him sexy. Smugly he lay back with his eyes closed, long lashes dark against his washed-out complexion. Despite the fact that his eyes were closed, Shea felt as though he witnessed every move she made. “You rest while I shower and change my clothes.” Her hands went to her hair in a futile effort to tidy the wild thickness of it. His eyes remained closed, his breathing relaxed. I can feel your hunger, your need for blood nearly as great as my own. Why would you attempt to hide this from me? With sudden insight he let out his breath. Or is it that you are hiding from your own needs? That is it--you do not realize it is your hunger, your need. The gentleness in his flooded her body with unexpected heat. Furious that he could be right, she stalked into the bathroom, shrugged off her robe, and allowed the warm shower to cascade over her head. His laughter was low and taunting. You think to escape me, little red hair? I live in you as you live in me. Shea gasped, whirled around, grabbed frantically for a towel. It took a moment to realize he was still in the other room.

His voice was cool and steady. “You’ve proved my point, Lillian. If a man you don’t even like can bring you to this state, then how much easier would it be for St. Vincent?” She started as if he had slapped her, and her eyes widened. The transition from warm desire to a feeling of utter foolishness was not a pleasant one. The devastating intimacy between them had been nothing but a lesson to demonstrate her inexperience. He had used it as an opportunity to put her in her place. Apparently she wasn’t good enough to wed or to bed. Lillian wanted to die. Humiliated, she scrambled upward, clutching at her unfastened garments, and shot him a glare of hatred. “That remains to be seen,” she choked out. “I’ll just have to compare the two of you. And then if you ask nicely, perhaps I’ll tell you if he—” Westcliff pounced on her with startling swiftness, shoving her back to the lawn and bracketing her tossing head between his muscular forearms. “Stay away from him,” he snapped. “He can’t have you.” “Why not?” she demanded, struggling as he settled more heavily between her flailing legs. “Am I not good enough for him either? Inferior breed that I am—” “You’re too good for him. And he would be the first to admit it.” “I like him all the better for not suiting your high standards!” “Lillian— hold still, damn it— Lillian, look at me!” Westcliff waited until she had stilled beneath him. “I don’t want to see you hurt.” “Has it ever occurred to you, you arrogant idiot, that the person most likely to hurt me might be you?” Now it was his turn to recoil as if struck. He stared at her blankly, though she could practically hear the whirring of his agile brain as he sorted through the potential implications of her rash statement. “Get off me,” Lillian said sullenly. He moved upward, straddling her slender hips, his fingers grasping the inner edges of her corset. “Let me fasten you. You can’t run back to the manor half dressed.” “By all means,” she replied with helpless scorn, “let’s observe the proprieties.” Closing her eyes, she felt him tugging her clothes into place, tying her chemise and re-hooking her corset efficiently. When he finally released her, she sprang from the ground like a startled doe and rushed to the entrance of the hidden garden. To her eternal humiliation, she couldn’t find the door, which was concealed by the lavish spills of ivy coming over the wall. Blindly she thrust her hands into the trailing greenery, breaking two nails as she scrabbled for the doorjamb. Coming up behind her, Westcliff settled his hands at her waist, easily dodging her attempts to throw him off. He pulled her hips back firmly against his and spoke against her ear. “Are you angry because I started making love to you, or because I didn’t finish?” Lillian licked her dry lips. “I’m angry, you bloody big hypocrite, because you can’t make up your mind about what to do with me.” She punctuated the comment with the hard jab of one elbow back against his ribs.

Nice work," I commented drily. "How old was that littlest one? Five? Did she put up a terrible fight?" "I feared for my life," Zach said with a perfectly straight face. "You must be bored, Julia. You usually have a sharper sense of humor than that." "Eat thorns." "Well, it is about lunch time. Let's go grab a bite.

Making friends already, I see,” Natalie said. “That didn’t take long.” “I can’t imagine why she doesn’t like me.” “I know. You’re delightful. In a moody, arrogant way.” He sighed and closed his eyes, focusing on the delicate weight of the child on his shoulder. “I know.” “She’s really very nice, you know. We had her over for pizza and a movie the other night. She’s great with Jake.” “I heard. She’s also funny and smart and organized.” Natalie glanced at Lucien’s desk, which was piled with books and papers. “No comment.” “None needed.” “So you’re jealous of the new doctor in the lab?” Natalie pursed her lips. “Do all the kids want to play with her now and not you? It’s okay, you can tell me.” “You’re ridiculous.

Mental health issues are caused by injustices in the society. So society is to blame for mental health sufferers. People need to comment. People need to criticize. If society was fair and nice, no one would have mental health issues.

It had been often commented upon that Vibe offspring tended to be crazy as bedbugs. ‘Fax’s brother Cragmont had run away with a trapeze girl, then brought her back to New York to get married, the wedding being actually performed on trapezes, groom and best man, dressed in tails and silk opera hats held on with elastic, swinging upside down by their knees in perfect synchrony across the perilous Æther to meet the bride and her father, a carnival “jointee” or concessionaire, in matched excursion from their own side of the ring, bridesmaids observed at every hand up twirling by their chins in billows of spangling, forty feet above the faces of the guests, feathers dyed a deep acid green sweeping and stirring the cigar smoke rising from the crowd. Cragmont Vibe was but thirteen that circus summer he became a husband and began what would become, even for the day, an enormous family. The third brother, Fleetwood, best man at this ceremony, had also got out of the house early, fast-talking his way onto an expedition heading for Africa. He kept as clear of political games as of any real scientific inquiry, preferring to take the title of “Explorer” literally, and do nothing but explore. It did not hurt Fleetwood’s chances that a hefty Vibe trust fund was there to pick up the bills for bespoke pith helmets and meat lozenges and so forth. Kit met him one spring weekend out at the Vibe manor on Long Island. “Say, but you’ve never seen our cottage,” ‘Fax said one day after classes. “What are you doing this weekend? Unless there’s another factory girl or pizza princess or something in the works.” “Do I use that tone of voice about the Seven Sisters material you specialize in?” “I’ve nothing against the newer races,” ‘Fax protested. “But you might like to meet Cousin Dittany anyway.” “The one at Smith.” “Mount Holyoke, actually.” “Can’t wait.” They arrived under a dourly overcast sky. Even in cheerier illumination, the Vibe mansion would have registered as a place best kept clear of—four stories tall, square, unadorned, dark stone facing looking much older than the known date of construction. Despite its aspect of abandonment, an uneasy tenancy was still pursued within, perhaps by some collateral branch of Vibes . . . it was unclear. There was the matter of the second floor. Only the servants were allowed there. It “belonged,” in some way nobody was eager to specify, to previous occupants. “Someone’s living there?” “Someone’s there.” . . . from time to time, a door swinging shut on a glimpse of back stairway, a muffled footfall . . . an ambiguous movement across a distant doorframe . . . a threat of somehow being obliged to perform a daily search through the forbidden level, just at dusk, so detailed that contact with the unseen occupants, in some form, at some unannounced moment, would be inevitable . . . all dustless and tidy, shadows in permanent possession, window-drapes and upholstery in deep hues of green, claret, and indigo, servants who did not speak, who would or could not meet one’s gaze . . . and in the next room, the next instant, waiting . . . “Real nice of you to have me here, folks,” chirped Kit at breakfast. “Fellow sleeps like a top. Well, except . . .” Pause in the orderly gobbling and scarfing. Interest from all around the table. “I mean, who came in the room in the middle of the night like that?” “You’re sure,” said Scarsdale, “it wasn’t just the wind, or the place settling.” “They were walking around, like they were looking for something.” Glances were exchanged, failed to be exchanged, were sent out but not returned. “Kit, you haven’t seen the stables yet,” Cousin Dittany offered at last. “Wouldn’t you like to go riding?

Bring Back Our Baskets! That was the cry heard from Quidditch players across the nation last night as it became clear that the Department of Magical Games and Sports had decided to burn the baskets used for centuries for goal-scoring in Quidditch. ‘We’re not burning them, don’t exaggerate,’ said an irritable-looking Departmental representative last night when asked to comment. ‘Baskets, as you may have noticed, come in different sizes. We have found it impossible to standardise basket size so as to make goalposts throughout Britain equal. Surely you can see it’s a matter of fairness. I mean, there’s a team up near Barnton, they’ve got these minuscule little baskets attached to the opposing team’s posts, you couldn’t get a grape in them. And up their own end they’ve got these great wicker caves swinging around. It’s not on. We’ve settled on a fixed hoop size and that’s it. Everything nice and fair.’ At this point, the Departmental representative was forced to retreat under a hail of baskets thrown by the angry demonstrators assembled in the hall. Although the ensuing riot was later blamed on goblin agitators, there can be no doubt that Quidditch fans across Britain are tonight mourning the end of the game as we know it. ‘’T won’t be t’ same wi’out baskets,’ said one apple-cheeked old wizard sadly. ‘I remember when I were a lad, we used to set fire to ’em for a laugh during t’ match. You can’t do that with goal hoops. ’Alf t’ fun’s gone.’ Daily Prophet, 12 February 1883

Were you not optimistic about Mr. Winterborn’s vision?” “I expected it would turn out well enough, but there was still a chance that something might have gone wrong. I would hate for that to happen to Winterborne. He’s not one to suffer hard knocks with forbearance and grace.” Helen gathered that not all of Winterborne’s impatience was a result of being confined to a sickroom. “I had imagined that a man who owned a department store would be very charming and put people at ease.” West grinned at that. “He can be. But the moments when he’s charming and putting people at ease are when he’s most dangerous. Never trust him when he’s nice.” Her eyes rounded with surprise. “I thought he was your friend.” “Oh, he is. But have no illusions about Winterborne. He’s not like any man you’ve ever known, nor is he someone your parents would have allowed you to meet in society.” “My parents,” Helen said, “had no intention of allowing me to meet anyone in society.” Staring at her keenly, West asked, “Why is that, I wonder?” She was silent, regretting her comment. “I’ve always thought it odd,” West remarked, “that you’ve been obliged to live like a nun in a cloister. Why didn’t your brother take you to London for the season when he was courting Kathleen?” She met his gaze directly. “Town held no interest for me; I was happier staying here.” West’s hand slid over hers and squeezed briefly. “Little friend…let me give you some advice that may prove helpful in the future, when you’re in society. When you lie, don’t fidget with your hands. Keep them still and relaxed in your lap.” “I wasn’t--” Helen broke off abruptly. After a slow breath, she spoke calmly. “I wanted to go, but Theo didn’t think I was ready.” “Better.” He grinned at her. “Still a lie…but better.

guiding users through a process quickly and easily is good for business, because the fewer people who get frustrated or confused, the more sales or sign-ups are completed. The problem, though, is that making interactions feel smooth and simple sounds nice, but it starts to fail as soon as you’re asking users for messy, complicated information. And as you’ll see in this chapter, all kinds of everyday questions can be messy and complicated—often in ways designers haven’t predicted. NAMING THE PROBLEM Sara Ann Marie Wachter-Boettcher. That’s how my birth certificate reads: five names, one hyphen, and a whole lot of consonant clusters (thanks, Mom and Dad!). I was used to it being misspelled. I was used to it being pronounced all sorts of ways. I was even used to everyone who looks at my driver’s license commenting that it takes up two whole lines. But I didn’t expect my name to cause me so many problems online. As it turns out, tons of services haven’t thought much about the wide range of names out there. So, on Twitter I forgo spaces to fit my professional name in: SaraWachterBoettcher. On online bill pay, they’ve truncated it for me: Sara Wachter-Boettch. In my airline’s online check-in system, hyphens straight up don’t exist. The list goes on. It’s irritating. It takes some extra time (do I enter a space between my last names, or just squish them together?). I see more error messages than I’d like. But it’s still a minor inconvenience, compared to what other people experience.

I love social network sites, and am very active, in fact I am on there a bit too much! But writing is a solitary affair and it's good to reward yourself with a chat now and again - that's my story and I'm sticking to it. I love being in touch with readers and it really gives me a boost when I get a good review or a nice comment. It means so much to hear that people are enjoying my work, that's what it's all about in the end, isn't it

That night, though, Mom was getting things ready for a party at the restaurant, so I had to bum a ride with Jack and Julie. Jack said they didn’t need a chaperon, but it was just talk. He always helped me when it mattered. While we were waiting for Julie, I asked him about the one detail that was bothering me. “I’m supposed to meet her there,” I said. “Do I meet her inside the gym or outside?” “Do you have a date or not?” “More or less.” Jack grinned and shook his head. “Well, it’s not that simple,” I told him. “She can’t go out on dates, so she’s coming with her parents, and I’m supposed to meet her.” Jack broke out laughing. “You’re singing the freshman blues again, Eddie. Everything ends up half-baked.” “So where do I meet her on a half-baked date?” “Inside,” he said. “That way you won’t have to pay for her ticket.” “I don’t want to look like a cheapskate.” “Why hide the truth? Besides, her parents are bringing her, right? You don’t want to meet her father, do you?” “I don’t know.” “Look, he’ll just shake your hand and give you a dirty look. That’s what freshman girls’ fathers always do.” “Really?” “So save the hassle and the money. Wait inside.” I ended up waiting right inside the door. When Wendy and her father came in, she was careful to keep things looking casual. She pretended not to notice me at first, then said, “Oh, hi, Eddie,” and introduced me to her father as a boy in her algebra class. He shook my hand and gave me a dirty look. For a minute I thought the three of us would end up sitting together, but her father decided not to join us in the student rooting section. Wendy and I found an empty bench in the bleachers and were alone for twenty or thirty seconds before two of her friends came along, then three of mine. Then some friends of theirs. And finally Wayne Parks squeezed into a spot on the bench behind us. All through the game he kept leaning forward and making comments like “Where’s the ref keep his Seeing Eye dog during the game?” Even if Wendy and I hadn’t had an audience, we couldn’t have done much talking. During every time-out the Los Cedros Spirit Band, sitting three rows behind us, blasted us off the benches with fight songs. To top things off, Wendy’s father sat across the aisle and stared at us all night. And the Los Cedros Panthers blew a six-point lead in the final minute and lost the game at the buzzer. Before Wendy and I had our coats on, her father showed up beside us, mumbled, “Nice to meet you, Willy,” and led her away. The night could have been worse, I guess. I didn’t break an ankle or choke on my popcorn or rip my pants. But I had a hard time being thankful for those small favors.

Aren’t you feeling well, dear?” “Did you have an accident?” “Perhaps you need a nice cup of tea?” The last comment brought a reluctant smile to my lips. Trust the English to always think that a cup of tea would fix everything. I

Meeting and Greeting 1. Use eye contact and smiling as your first contact with others. In doing so, you can scout out the friendly, approachable strangers in the room and feel immediately more at ease. 2. Be the first to say hello. Stay calm if you are left alone to mingle—large parties, forgetful hosts, and friendly guests make this situation inevitable. 3. Introduce yourself to others. Offer your hand and say: “Hello. My name is . . .” 4. As you shake hands, repeat the person’s name. “Nice to meet you, Jack.” This will help imprint the name in your own mind. 5. Make an extra effort to remember names and use them in conversation: “Don’t you agree, Jim?” This makes people feel special. 6. Go out of your way to meet new people. They may feel as out of place as you do: “Hi, I don’t believe we’ve met yet, I’m . . . “ or “I don’t know a soul.” 7. Ask neutral questions that are easy to answer to convey the message that you’d like to get to know this person better. 8. Be prepared to say something interesting about what you do—but in small doses. No one wants to hear you talk exclusively about yourself. 9. Communicate a sense of enthusiasm about the event at hand or life in general. Focus on the positive. 10. Look for passing comments that could open up a whole topic of conversation. “The New York subways were a real experience for this country boy” could lead to a discussion of childhood on the farm, adjusting to city life, public transportation. . . . Clothes, jewelry, and accessories also make excellent conversation pieces. It’s up to you to take the conversational ball and run with it, but be sure to pass it back to your teammate from time to time.

This is an egregious breach of journalistic ethics. It’s absolutely inappropriate, whether they consider themselves “journalists” or not. You don’t “act” the part of an independent, objective host and secretly rehearse your exchanges with a candidate. Ever. If neither gifts nor praise worked, Trump would use insults or threats. Commentators like Charles Krauthammer, Brit Hume, George Will, Jonah Goldberg, Dana Perino, Rich Lowry, Steve Hayes, Marc Thiessen, and Chris Stirewalt were derided as “dummies” or “losers” or “lightweights” or “failures” for offering their honest, albeit unflattering, analysis of Trump. Anyone who didn’t fall under the Trump spell was fair game. Plenty of straight news reporters were hit too. The Des Moines Register’s journalists were banned from Trump’s campaign events because the paper’s editorial board had harshly criticized him. The Washington Post was later banned for similar reasons. So were Univision, the Daily Beast, and others. The message was clear: cover Trump “nicely,” and good things happen. Hit him too hard, and suffer the consequences. He’d been laying the groundwork for that basic strategy for months before he launched his campaign.   In

LULLABALOO As I was walking in The park one day I chanced to run into An angelorium. Good morning, he said I answered back, good day. He was speaking Spanish But I used French. Dites moi, Sir Angel Comment va monsieur. He stretched out his hand I grabbed his foot, You should get a good look At a real live angel! As silly as a swan As cold as a crowbar As fat as a duck As ugly as you. I got a little scared But I stuck it out. I tried to touch his feathers His feathers felt as Hard as the hard Shell of a fish, Just think if it was Lucifer! I made him mad He took a swipe at me With his golden sword But I was quick and ducked. That's the looniest angel I ever hope to see. I laughed myself to pieces I said, goodbye, kind sir Be on your way. Have a nice day Get run over by a car, Get killed by a train. So that's the story of the angel. The End.

it was occasionally nice to talk to someone who did not have a sardonic comment for every occasion.

Nice lines,” commented Joe. “Pass close to her, will you, Frank?” Quietly, with her engine throttled down, the motorboat drew abreast of the larger vessel. It was now dusk and a light shone in her cabin from which came the sound of activity. Frank gazed in admiration at the tall masts and shipshape rigging.

Don’t insult my intelligence,” Dustin said, almost sneering now. “I know you have your little scheme to get married by thirty.” Rae felt like she’d been slapped. She wanted to slap back, but that would just be cruel, hitting someone who was already down, so she turned the fury inward. She must’ve set some of the marriage pressure on Dustin’s sunken shoulders, making him feel like being her boyfriend wasn’t enough for her. Or maybe it had been her mom’s tactless hints that she wanted to be around to see her grandkids grow up, or even his own mom’s comments over New Year’s about how it was about time Dustin brought home a nice girl and settled down like his brothers.

It’s the feeling you get when you’ve made something wonderful, or done something wonderful, and when you look back at it later, all you can say is: “I don’t even know where that came from.” You can’t repeat it. You can’t explain it. But it felt as if you were being guided. I only rarely experience this feeling, but it’s the most magnificent sensation imaginable when it arrives. I don’t think there is a more perfect happiness to be found in life than this state, except perhaps falling in love. In ancient Greek, the word for the highest degree of human happiness is eudaimonia, which basically means “well-daemoned”—that is, nicely taken care of by some external divine creative spirit guide. (Modern commentators, perhaps uncomfortable with this sense of divine mystery, simply call it “flow” or “being in the zone.”)

Do you want to know a secret?” she breathed, her voice lowering seductively. “What?” I asked, wanting to hear anything and everything she might ever want to tell me. She leaned a little closer and her long hair tickled my skin. “I think,” she breathed slowly. “That I’m going to puke.” She leapt off of me so quickly that the bed bounced beneath me as she darted to the en-suite. My dick was straining so hard against my fly that I thought it might actually burst and I had to rearrange myself before I could follow her. By the time I got there she’d already emptied her stomach contents into the toilet and she flushed it before stumbling towards the basin where she washed her mouth out. She proceeded to steal my toothbrush like a goddamn animal and I leaned against the doorframe as I watched her, trying not to look at her ass too much as she bent forward over the basin but I was clearly failing at that. I should have been pissed at her for intruding on my space like this but somehow I didn’t mind at all. When she’d finished, she sauntered back towards me, pushing a hand into her hair as she fought to walk in a straight line. She failed. I caught her as she almost face planted into the tiles and hooked her into my arms before returning her to the bed again. She tugged me down too and I was past the point of protesting. The moment her head hit the pillow her eyes fell shut but she turned towards me, draping an arm across my waist. I flicked the lights off and the room was only illuminated by the fire which was burning low in the grate. “You’re unbelievable, you know that,” she mumbled. “In what way?” I asked, wondering if she just might be about to admit that she felt this heat between us too. She shifted nearer to me and I pulled her close as she laid her head on my chest. My heart was hammering wildly and I couldn’t quite believe the strange turn of events that had led us here. For the longest moment she didn’t speak and I began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep but then she carried on. “You have the biggest goddamn jacuzzi I’ve ever seen in your bathroom,” she said and I couldn’t help but laugh at the way that conversation had gone. “Do you like it?” I asked. “No. It’s just unbelievable. Like you. You’re just... such... a dick.” Her breathing grew heavier and I was sure she’d passed out again. A smile pulled at my lips in response to her comment. It might have been nice for my ego if she’d started declaring how attractive she found me, but in all honesty she just wouldn’t have been herself without her smart mouth. And I was beginning to realise that I might like that, and a few other things about her, just a bit too much. (Darius POV)

TEN WAYS YOU GIVE AWAY INFLUENCE Assuming that your needs are secondary to the other’s Not listening to your feelings Letting yourself be interrupted Backing down when someone disagrees with you Avoiding conflict—not disagreeing with the other, keeping things nice Not giving feedback, assuming the problem is probably yours Being concerned about being liked/approved of and seeing that as most important Minimizing the importance of your comments Not taking credit for your accomplishments Not pointing out a problem unless you have a solution

The door opened behind us and several of the cheerleaders shrieked as Darius strode in wearing his Pitball uniform, making a beeline for Tory. She was only in her skirt and sports bra, looking to him with her brows arching. “Flans on a Friday!” Geraldine exclaimed mid-lunge. “This is the ladies room and Jacinta has her Petunia out!” She pointed at Jacinta who was struggling to get her panties up her legs, getting entangled as she stared at Darius’s back in alarm. Darius rolled his eyes, ignoring the chaos around him as he fixed Tory in his sights while I fought a grin at the two of them. I couldn’t believe what Caleb had done for them and I was so happy that there was a way they could be together sometimes. Even if that did involve a threesome with two Heirs, at least she was enjoying herself. Get it, Tor. “Cheerleaders sometimes support a certain player on the field,” Darius said as he pushed his hand into his pocket and took out a navy ribbon with the word Fireshield on it. “Will you cheer for me today, Roxy?” He held it out for her and I swear she actually blushed. “I’m cheering for Darcy and Geraldine too.” “We don’t mind,” I said immediately. “Do we Geraldine?” “By all the rocks in Saturn’s rings, of course we don’t!” Tory shrugged in answer, a smile playing around her mouth and he leaned forward and wrapped the ribbon around her throat and tied it in place. “They’re normally worn on the wrist,” Geraldine whispered to me overly loudly. “This is most romantic.” “Good luck,” Tory said and he nodded before heading out of the room. I bit my lip, looking to her for a comment while Geraldine rested a foot up on the bench, pressing her elbow to her knee and perching her chin on her knuckles as she gazed wistfully at my sister. “What?” Tory asked innocently. “You know what,” I teased and she fought a grin, glancing over her shoulder as if checking to make sure he was really gone. Then she cast a silencing bubble around thethree of us and her expression became anxious. “It’s not that I don’t like the sweet side of Darius, but…” she started. “But what?” Geraldine gasped. “What is it?” I pressed gently when she didn’t elaborate. She sighed, looking a bit guilty. “I just miss our back and forth. This isn’t him. It’s just a nice version of him. I want the real Darius, not some watered down version. And I need to be sure the real Darius isn’t going to hurt me again. Like what happens when one day I piss him off and make him lose his temper again?” Geraldine’s jaw almost hit the floor, but before she could try and convince Tory otherwise, I spoke. Because I knew my sister, and I was starting to get a fairly good read on Darius too. And she had a point. He was on his best behaviour right now, but that couldn’t go on forever. If they were going to find some way to make this work, she needed to know what long-term Darius looked like. And besides that, she lived for being kept on her toes. (Darcy)

We were interrupted as the four Heirs spilled out of the house and I looked around to find Caleb smirking at me. I returned his smile for the briefest of moments before looking back at my sister. “Can I have a word for a moment, Roxy?” Darius asked as he drew closer to us. The other Heirs kept going and they moved past us to join Orion as he started walking further down the drive. Darcy looked between us uncertainly and I gave her a reassuring smile before she hurried after the others. “So?” I asked, unsure whether he was pissed at me or not. It was nearly midnight after all so his nice guy act was about to go pop. He took my hand and pulled my arm around his as he glanced back at the manor. He started walking, drawing me along with him and I let him as curiosity prickled at me. “You shouldn’t have spoken to my father the way you did,” he said slowly and I geared myself up to go on the defensive. “Well he didn’t really give me much choice.” “What was it you called him again?” he asked. “Ummm, I don’t really recall...” “I think you said something about an oversized iguana,” he prompted and I snorted a laugh. Darius tried to resist laughing too but he couldn’t really hide his smile. “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you for that. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone insult him in all my life,” he added. “Well, maybe they don’t... to his face,” I hedged and his smile widened for a moment before falling back into a frown. Darius slowed me down before we could get any closer to the others who were waiting by a huge water fountain which stood beyond the drive. I glanced up at him and the look in his eyes pulled me up short as he gripped my arm tighter. “Don’t ever do anything like that again though,” he warned. “I diverted his attention this time but he won’t ever take that kind of attitude from you a second time.” I wanted to make some snide comment but he was looking at me so intensely that I only nodded. I had no intention of ever seeing Lionel Acrux again anyway. I certainly wouldn’t be accepting anymore invitations from him. (tory)

My sweeting is nice," Claray commented. "Nay," Conall said quickly, and when she looked at him with surprise, he tried to cover his horror at the thought of being called that, by saying, "I'd rather call ye that and we can no' both use it." "Oh," she breathed, seeming pleased at the idea of his calling her that. He made a mental note to use it, and to come up with other endearments to please her. Flower, perhaps. Or petal, to reflect how beautiful and precious he found her.

Harvard Business Review wrote an article[2] stating that the ideal praise to criticism ratio in relationships is 5 to 1—five positive comments for every negative one. John Gottman, the famous researcher from the Gottman Institute who started studying couples in the 1970s in his research lab, found that for people who end up in divorce, the ratio is 0.77 to 1. This means three positive comments for every four negative ones.[3]

I happened to be talking to George at a meeting—we were sorting out some of the Apple business,” Paul later recalled. “Someone said something, and George just said, ‘Well, we’re all prisoners, kind of inside ourselves,’ or, you know, ‘inside every fat man, there’s a thin man trying to get out.’ I just took up that theme of, we’re all prisoners in a way, so I kind of wrote a prison song. And as I say, you can take it symbolically or straight, it works on both levels.”35 Getting from George’s comments to a prison song took some doing, however, and as Paul turned over the remark in his mind, his first thoughts reflected his own sense of still being trapped in the Beatles partnership agreement—and at an Apple legal meeting. The first verse he wrote,36 “If we ever get out of here / Thought of giving it all away / To a registered charity” is the kind of internal bargaining one does when stuck in circumstances—a business meeting, say—and hoping for liberation. Another verse moves closer to the prison metaphor—“Stuck inside these four walls / Sent inside forever / Never seeing no-one nice again.

You’re in control, mo leannan. You’ve controlled me from the second we met. Not in the way you meant it, surely.” He huffs out a laugh because we both know I didn’t want him to stalk me. All I wanted was for him to leave me alone. “But you own me now. You own my heart. My soul.” He starts pumping his fingers in and out of me in a faster rhythm. “My cock.” He lifts an eyebrow and smirks. I wish I could come up with a snarky comment, but all I can do is whimper from his touch. “You have my protection. And hopefully soon, my name, too. Lucille Burton has a nice ring to it, does it not?

It’s not bragging if you speak the truth, use your title, and comment on a few things of which you’re proud.

And if I didn’t do it and he made some comment I’d find myself apologizing, like his reaction was completely reasonable. He was always in these bad moods. I never knew which Neil I was going to get. One day he’s cooking me a nice dinner, my favorite bottle of wine, and the next he’s mad at me for God knows what because he won’t even speak to me. It was like he liked me on eggshells.

endowed by the paper mill family and would have sufficed for a church four times the size. It nicely complemented the organist, a retired high school math teacher who felt that certain attributes of the Lord (violence and capriciousness in the Old Testament, majesty and triumph in the New) could be directly conveyed into the souls of the endowed sinners through a kind of frontal sonic impregnation. That he ran the risk of blowing out the stained-glass windows was of no consequence since no one liked them anyway, and the paper mill fumes were gnawing at the interstitial lead. But after one little old lady too many staggered down the aisle after a service, reeling from tinnitus, and made a barbed comment to the minister about the exceedingly dramatic music, the organist was replaced.

Floyd hopped up on the loveseat next to me. "Hi, pal," I said, feeling a little drained. "Your mom should be back soon." His meow sounded like a whine. "I know the feeling. But maybe I can help you out?" When I went to the kitchen and cut up a scallop, he meowed again and went up on his hind legs, begging. "Did you just twirl?" I said, astonished. I sat back down on the sofa and put my hand out, and he became a little furry seafood vacuum. "I didn't know you could purr as you ate. That's kind of amazing." He headbutted my empty hand, and I took a hint and ran it through his silky fur. I dug my fingertips around his ears and chin, and he closed his eyes and purred even more loudly. "Such a good boy," I said, feeling a little better. "You like that? Is that, oof!" His big back feet drove the air out of me while he climbed onto my chest. "Jesus, cat, at least buy me a drink first." He ignored my smartass comment and stretched out from my thighs to my shoulders. "I guess this is me now. Your throne, forever." Green-gold eyes blinked slowly. "Are you smiling?" He rested his head under my chin and sighed. We hadn't had animals when I was a kid. Too messy, Mom said. Too needy, Dad said. But maybe this was the upside of being needed. Quiet, sweet moments like this one. "OK," I told him. "Just for a little bit." Ellie Was Kieran crooning? Maybe the wall of the cottage was distorting his voice? "That feels so good, doesn't it, bud? Such a big, nice cat. Yes, you are." Yes, he was. He rubbed Floyd's cheeks and my cat melted for him like fluffy butter.

The smells ran instantly up my nostrils like some sort of acid vapour, taking my thoughts back several years to the morning we’d rocked up here after discovering Mum’d had that tumour in her chest. Doctors had said her prognosis was good. (Do they tell everyone that?) We’d pulled into the car park and Dad’d commented, ‘Oh well, it’s a nice view of the ocean at least.’ Like that’s all that mattered. Like we were having a snug little holiday by the sea. Like we were going to be enjoying the ocean views and the docks and the rolling coastline over bacon and eggs and buttered chemotherapy every fucking morning.

Wish there were a “good news” channel? I usually have news stations humming in the background to keep up with worldwide events, but that constant white noise is sometimes like a cloud descending on the home. I defined for Piper the term “pet peeve” a few years ago. “Got it, Mom,” she responded. “My ‘pet peeve’ then is Fox News.” Yikes. I turned the volume down after that one slapped me upside the head. From crazy politicians pushing treaties with terrorist nations to thugs trashing neighborhood Walgreens in the name of “free speech,” bad news is exhausting. Some days it would be nice just to hear about Joe Six Pack and his hardworking family and his kid who got an “A” in Algebra today. Jesus tells of weeds thrown by the enemy into a field of good seed. Those weeds remind me of all the bad news we hear about in the media. As the time draws nearer to the return of Jesus, the Bible says the hearts of man will become increasingly hardened and they will refuse to repent of their crimes (Rev. 9:21). Sorcery, murder, immorality, and theft will rise, while at the same time God’s followers are called to stand firm in righteousness. Both the good seed and the bad seed will grow to fullness, until the final harvest of the “wheat.” At the great harvest, according to the Word, the Lord will take up the weeds to burn them, while gathering the wheat unto Him. SWEET FREEDOM IN Action Today, stand strong in the midst of weeds; mute the droning on and on of constant bad news; and anticipate that this era’s closing comments get very good for believers!

She burst out laughing. “Did you just quote Silence of the Lambs at me? Serial killer dialogue meant to reassure me?” He cursed under his breath, and she reached out to pat his arm to reassure him. “I know it was a joke. Really. I’m more concerned you have a foot fetish than with you being a serial killer.” “Foot fetish?” “The toes comment? I mean, look, if it floats someone’s boat, more power to them. But I can’t even get a pedicure because people touching my feet weirds me out.” “Note to self, don’t try to paint Nat’s toenails.” He turned with a grin on his face. “We’re both being way more nervous than we need to be.” “Yeah. Probably.” “I like cute toes when they’re painted and looking great in nice high heels. I don’t want to lick them or anything. Yours would probably be worth it. But I can control my baser urges.

thought you had liberal views on what women should be allowed to do. It’s not as if I were suggesting joining one of your hideous hunts. I imagine that there aren’t wild animals behind every rock in Turkey waiting to charge at helpless humans.” “I wouldn’t object in principle to your going to Troy, but I will admit that I don’t view you as an adventurous type.” His eyes searched my own. “Beast! You don’t know me at all.” “Would you have the wardrobe?” He was laughing, and I realized he was teasing me. “Isn’t Ephesus in Turkey? Perhaps I could visit there on the same trip. I’ll send you a note from the Temple of Artemis, where I assure you I will not appear in evening clothes.” “I didn’t realize you had an interest in antiquity.” “Philip inspired me.” We had reached the rue de Rivoli and were nearly at the Meurice. “Let’s keep walking; I would like to see the river at night.” We turned away from the hotel and walked until we reached the Pont-Neuf. The air had grown chilly, and I had not worn even a light wrap; Colin stood near me to shield me from the wind blowing over the bridge. “Can you imagine how many people have crossed this bridge?” I asked. “It must be three hundred years old. Do you think that Marie Antoinette ever stood here and looked across the Seine at the city?” “Hardly. I think she would have had a greater appreciation for the views at Versailles.” “We consider this bridge old, but if it were in Athens, would anyone even comment on it? I shouldn’t be impressed with anything less than two thousand years old if I were in Greece.” “Then you would miss some particularly fine Roman ruins, my dear. Why don’t you plan a nice, civilized trip to Athens on your way to Santorini when you go?” “I shall have to see how it fits with my plan to visit Troy.” Colin shook his head and took my arm. I let him guide me back to the hotel, but not before contemplating at some length the pleasure I derived from his standing so close to me.   COLIN CALLED ON ME the next afternoon, and I confess I was delighted to see him. I planned to dine in my rooms that evening and invited him to join me. He readily accepted. “What time shall I return?” he asked. “I’ll only need to dress.” “Don’t be silly,” I replied. “We shan’t dress. I ordered a light supper and asked to have it early. It’s only the two of us, and

Imagine if our churches were known for being communities of Jesus-centered happiness, overflowing with the sheer gladness of what it means to live out the good news of great joy. Imagine if our children brought their friends to church and their comment was, “Those people seem so nice . . . and happy.