Correct Suspicion Quotes

The old adage, 'If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is' isn't always correct. In fact, the suspicion, cynicism, and doubt that are inherent in this belief can and does keep people from taking advantage of excellent opportunities.

He looked at Chloe "Come over to the table. Sit with your aunt. I will clear away the mess and....I will achieve pancakes." Grace's lovely, tired face wobbled with looked suspiciously like mirth, but she had been under so much stress he decided his first impression could not be correct. "You'll achieve pancakes?" "I do not see why not" he said "Have you ever achieved them before?" she said "That question is irrelevant," he told her, while his eyes narrowed in suspicion on her tired face. On a Djinn, her expression would definitely be laughter. "I will achieve pancakes now.

Here is the thing about men lying to women while telling them they are crazy or overreacting. The lying, the underplaying on their side, makes us doubt our intuition and intelligence, so eventually when suspicions are confirmed, when we find out we have been correct all along, we do go batshit fucking crazy. And it is warranted.

What Rangers do, or more correctly, what Rangers’ apprentices do, is the housework.” Will had a sinking feeling as the suspicion struck him that he’d made a tactical error. “The…housework?” he repeated. Halt nodded, looking distinctly pleased with himself. “That’s right. Take a look around.” He paused, gesturing around the interior of the cabin for Will to do as he suggested, then continued, “See ay servants?” “No, sir,” Will said slowly. “No sir indeed!” Halt said. “Because this isn’t a mighty castle with a staff of servants. This is a lowly cabin. And it has water to be fetched and firewood to be chopped and floors to be swept and rugs to be beaten. And who do you suppose might do all those things, boy?” Will tried to think of some answer other than the one which now seemed inevitable. Nothing came to mind, so he finally said, in a defeated tone, “Would that be me, sir?” “I believe it would be,” the Ranger told him, then rattled off a list of instructions crisply. “Bucket there. Barrel outside the door. Water in the river. Ax in the lean-to, firewood behind the cabin. Broom by the door and I believe you can probably see where the floor might be?” “Yes, sir,” said Will, beginning to roll up his sleeves.

It is one thing to suspect yourself of going mad; it is another thing entirely to discover your suspicions are correct.

xxx not every suspicion--no matter how overwhelming or absolute it seems--is correct. Not everything we fear--not every intuition that shakes us to our core--comes to pass.

They needed each other. Two lost souls, he thought, taking a moment to walk to the tall windows that looked out on part of the world he’d built for himself out of will, desire, sweat, and dubiously accumulated funds. Two lost souls whose miserable beginnings had forged them into what appeared to be polar opposites. Love had narrowed the distance, then had all but eradicated it. She’d saved him. The night his life had hung in her furious and unbreakable grip. She’d saved him, he mused, the first moment he’d locked eyes with her. As impossible as it should have been, she was his answer. He was hers. He had a need to give her things. The tangible things wealth could command. Though he knew the gifts most often puzzled and flustered her. Maybe because they did, he corrected with a grin. But underlying that overt giving was the fierce foundation to give her comfort, security, trust, love. All the things they’d both lived without most of their lives. He wondered that a woman who was so skilled in observation, in studying the human condition, couldn’t see that what he felt for her was often as baffling and as frightening to him as it was to her. Nothing had been the same for him since she’d walked into his life wearing an ugly suit and cool-eyed suspicion. He thanked God for it. Feeling sentimental, he realized. He supposed it was the Irish that popped out of him at unexpected moments.

You think I hate men. I guess I do, although some of my best friends...I don't like this position. I mistrust generalized hatred. I feel like one of those twelfth century monks raving on about how evil women are and how they must cover themselves up completely when they go out lest they lead men into evil thoughts. The assumption that the men are the ones who matter, and that the women exist only in relation to them, is so silent and underrunning that ever we never picked it up until recently. But after all, look at what we read. I read Schopenhauer and Nietzsche and Wittgenstein and Freud and Erikson; I read de Montherlant and Joyce and Lawrence and sillier people like Miller and Mailer and Roth and Philip Wylie. I read the Bible and Greek myths and didn't question why all later redactions relegated Gaea-Tellus and Lilith to a footnote and made Saturn the creator of the world. I read or read about, without much question, the Hindus and the Jews, Pythagoras and Aristotle, Seneca, Cato, St.Paul, Luther, Sam Johnson, Rousseau, Swift...well, you understand. For years I didn't take it personally. So now it is difficult for me to call others bigots when I am one myself. I tell people at once, to warn them, that I suffer from deformation of character. But the truth is I am sick unto death of four thousand years of males telling me how rotten my sex is. Especially it makes me sick when I look around and see such rotten men and such magnificent women, all of whom have a sneaking suspicion that the four thousand years of remarks are correct. These days I feel like an outlaw, a criminal. Maybe that's what the people perceive who look at me so strangely as I walk the beach. I feel like an outlaw not only because I think that men are rotten and women are great, but because I have come to believe that oppressed people have the right to use criminal means to survive. Criminal means being, of course, defying the laws passed by the oppressors to keep the oppressed in line. Such a position takes you scarily close to advocating oppression itself, though. We are bound in by the terms of the sentence. Subject-verb-object. The best we can do is turn it around. and that's no answer, is it?

There is another problem. Echo chambers can lead people to believe in falsehoods, and it may be difficult or impossible to correct them. Falsehoods take a toll. One illustration is the belief that President Barack Obama was not born in the United States. As falsehoods go, this one is not the most damaging, but it both reflected and contributed to a politics of suspicion, distrust, and sometimes hatred. A

Religion, then, is far from "useless." It humanizes violence; it protects man from his own violence by taking it out of his hands, transforming it into a transcendent and ever-present danger to be kept in check by the appropriate rites appropriately observed and by a modest and prudent demeanor. Religious misinterpretation is a truly constructive force, for it purges man of the suspicions that would poison his existence if he were to remain conscious of the crisis as it actually took place. To think religiously is to envision the city's destiny in terms of that violence whose mastery over man increases as man believes he has gained mastery over it. To think religiously (in the primitive sense) is to see violence as something superhuman, to be kept always at a distance and ultimately renounced. When the fearful adoration of this power begins to diminish and all distinctions begin to disappear, the ritual sacrifices lose their force; their potency is not longer recognized by the entire community. Each member tries to correct the situation individually, and none succeeds. The withering away of the transcendental influence means that there is no longer the slightest difference between a desire to save the city and unbridled ambition, between genuine piety and the desire to claim divine status for oneself. Everyone looks on a rival enterprise as evidence of blasphemous designs. Men set to quarreling about the gods, and their skepticism leads to a new sacrificial crisis that will appear - retrospectively, in the light of a new manifestation of unanimous violence - as a new act of divine intervention and divine revenge. Men would not be able to shake loose the violence between them, to make of it a separate entity both sovereign and redemptory, without the surrogate victim. Also, violence itself offers a sort of respite, the fresh beginning of a cycle of ritual after a cycle of violence. Violence will come to an end only after it has had the last word and that word has been accepted as divine. The meaning of this word must remain hidden, the mechanism of unanimity remain concealed. For religion protects man as long as its ultimate foundations are not revealed. To drive the monster from its secret lair is to risk loosing it on mankind. To remove men's ignorance is only to risk exposing them to an even greater peril. The only barrier against human violence is raised on misconception. In fact, the sacrificial crisis is simply another form of that knowledge which grows grater as the reciprocal violence grows more intense but which never leads to the whole truth. It is the knowledge of violence, along with the violence itself, that the act of expulsion succeeds in shunting outside the realm of consciousness. From the very fact that it belies the overt mythological messages, tragic drama opens a vast abyss before the poet; but he always draws back at the last moment. He is exposed to a form of hubris more dangerous than any contracted by his characters; it has to do with a truth that is felt to be infinitely destructive, even if it is not fully understood - and its destructiveness is as obvious to ancient religious thought as it is to modern philosophers. Thus we are dealing with an interdiction that still applies to ourselves and that modern thought has not yet invalidated. The fact that this secret has been subjected to exceptional pressure in the play [Bacchae] must prompt the following lines: May our thoughts never aspire to anything higher than laws! What does it cost man to acknowledge the full sovereignty of the gods? That which has always been held as true owes its strength to Nature.

We value modesty partly because we value desire, and look with suspicion on those habits which untie the knot of individual attachment. Havelock Ellis put the point tendentiously, but (as I shall argue) correctly, when he wrote: 'In the art of love...[modesty] is more than a grace; it must always be fundamental. Modesty is not indeed the last word of love, but it is the necessary foundation for all love's exquisite audacities, the foundation which alone gives worth and sweetness to what Senancour calls its 'delicious impudence'. Without modesty, we could not have, nor rightly value at its true worth, that bold and pure candour which is at once the final revelation of love and the seal of its sincerity.

Here is the thing about men lying to women while telling them they are crazy or overreacting. They lying, the underplaying on their side, makes us doubt our intuition and intelligence, so eventually when suspicions are confirmed, when we find out we have been correct all along, we do go batshit crazy. And it is warranted.

He had learned over time to keep his thoughts to himself, which was most easily accomplished if his brain activity was split into categories. His mind was like a computer with multiple applications open, some of them buzzing with contemplation in the background. Most of the time Aldo did not give others the impression he was listening, a suspicion that was generally correct.

I know he frightens you, Willow, but I won't let him hurt you. I wish you'd remember that, and try to relax a little." Reluctant to divulge her suspicions that Hicks had stolen the cattle and possibly blackmailed her pa, she didn't correct Rider's assumption that she was worrying about her own safety. Instead she replied, "I'm still not sure why you're risking your neck. You don't really even like me." Rider tugged her to an abrupt halt on the path and tilted her face up to his. "I like you plenty, lady. Maybe too much. But if you choose not to believe that, then maybe you can believe this. You're not using me any more than I'm using you. Right now, you need a strong man to protect you. I'm strong and I need the job. It's as simple as that." For a moment Willow stood stock still. Then she grinned. "You like me, huh?" "Yeah." He chucked her under the chin. "I got this thing about poor helpless females." "Helpless!" she bristled. Then recognizing the teasing twinkle in his eye, she smiled. "Don't make me laugh, Rider. That makes my head hurt, too.

in a thousand ways people combine not just in circles of friendship but in formal associations, willingly adopting and submitting to rules and procedures that regiment their conduct and make them accountable for doing things correctly. Such associations are a source not only of enjoyment but also of pride: they create hierarchies, offices and rules to which people willingly submit because they can see the point of them. They are also viewed with suspicion by those who believe that civil society should be directed by those who know best.

Your words simply woke in me such thoughts... Etta. Where were you taught such things?" "Such things as what?" There was definite suspicion in her voice now. "Such things as accepting life and making the best of it..." Spoken aloud, it seemed such a simple concept. Moments ago, those words had rung for him like great bells of truth. It was right, what they said: enlightenment was merely the truth at the correct time. "In a brothel." Even that revelation opened his mind to light. "Then Sa is truly there, as well, in all his wisdom and glory.

Our boys are failing in school. Has it occurred to no one that we have checked them at every turn, perversely insisting that they must not form brotherhoods, that they must not identify their manhood with practical and intellectual skills that transform the world, and that they must not ever have the opportunity, apart from girls, to attach themselves in friendship to men who could teach them? For good reason boys of that awkward age used to build tree houses and hang signs barring girls. They knew, if only instinctively, that the fire of the friendship could not subsist otherwise. But what similar thing can they do now without inviting either reproach or suspicion? Thus what is perfectly natural and healthy, indeed very much needed for certain people at certain times or for certain purposes, is cast as irrational and bigoted, or dubious and weak; and thus some boys will cobble together their own brotherhoods that eschew tenderness altogether, criminal brotherhoods that land them in prison. This is all right by us, it seems. Better to harass the Boy Scouts on Monday, and on Tuesday build another wing for the Ministry of Corrections.

Lurking behind this connecting silence is a brooding suspicion over the extent to which the perceptual user-preferences of the human animal limit and distort its experience of reality, and the consequently unreliable nature of much of its thought. Poetry is the means by which we correct the main tool of that thought, language, for its anthropic distortions: it is language's self-corrective function, and everywhere challenges our Adamite inheritance - the catastrophic, fragmenting design of our conceptualizing machinery - through the insistence on a counterbalancing project, that of lyric unity.

We overcome the evil in the world by the charity and compassion of God, and in so doing we drive all evil out of our own hearts. The evil that is in us is more than moral. There is a psychological evil, the distortion caused by selfishness and sin. Good moral intentions are enough to correct what is formally bad in our moral acts. But in order that our charity may heal the wounds of sin in our whole soul it must reach down into the furthest depths of our humanity, cleaning out all the infection of anxiety and false guilt that spring from pride and fear, releasing the good that has been held back by suspicion and prejudice and self-conceit. Everything in our nature must find its right place in the life of charity, so that the whole man may be lifted up to God, that the entire person may be sanctified and not only the intentions of his will.

Yet the letter was not addressed to my mistress, but to another person in the building whose name was different but had been mistaken for hers. The letter was written not in a coded format but in poor French, because it had been written by an American lady, who was indeed one of Saint-Loup’s friends, as he informed me himself. And the strange way in which this American lady formed some of her letters had given the appearance of a nickname to a perfectly authentic but foreign surname. I had therefore been entirely wrong in my suspicions that day. But the intellectual framework that had linked these facts together in my mind did provide a perfectly correct and unanswerable model for the truth when my mistress (who at the time had been thinking of spending her whole life with me) did leave me three months later, for it happened in a fashion absolutely identical to the way I had imagined on the previous occasion.

Haydée became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven, exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, “Then you leave me, my lord?” “Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and be happy.” “It is well,” said Haydée; “your order shall be executed, my lord; I will forget even your name, and be happy.” And she stepped back to retire. “Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head of Morrel on her shoulder, “do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see how she suffers?” Haydée answered with a heartrending expression, “Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am his slave; he has the right to notice nothing.” The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmost recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl and he could not bear their brilliancy. “Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “can my suspicions be correct? Haydée, would it please you not to leave me?” “I am young,” gently replied Haydée; “I love the life you have made so sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die.” “You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haydée——” “I should die; yes, my lord.” “Do you then love me?” “Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love Maximilian.” The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his arms, and Haydée, uttering a cry, sprang into them. “Oh, yes,” she cried, “I do love you! I love you as one loves a father, brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the noblest of created beings!

[I]t is now common to describe racial and ethnic diversity as one of America’s greatest strengths. It is therefore easy to forget that this is a change in thinking that dates back only to perhaps the 1970s. For most of their history Americans preferred sameness to diversity. In 1787, in the second of The Federalist Papers, John Jay gave thanks that “Providence has been pleased to give this one connected country to one united people, a people descended from the same ancestors, speaking the same language, professing the same religion, attached to the same principles of government, very similar in their manners and customs . . . .” Thomas Jefferson was suspicious of the diversity that even white immigrants would bring: 'In proportion to their numbers, they will share with us the legislation. They will infuse into it their spirit, warp and bias its directions, and render it a heterogeneous, incoherent, distracted mass. . . . Suppose 20 millions of republican Americans thrown all of a sudden into France, what would be the condition of that kingdom? It would be more turbulent, less happy, less strong. We believe that the addition of half a million foreigners to our present numbers would produce a similar effect here.' Alexander Hamilton shared his suspicions: 'The opinion is . . . correct, that foreigners will generally be apt to bring with them attachments to the persons they have left behind; to the country of their nativity, and to its particular customs and manners . . . . The influx of foreigners must, therefore, tend to produce a heterogeneous compound; to change and corrupt the national spirit; to complicate and confound public opinion; to introduce foreign propensities.' The United States nevertheless did permit immigration, but only of Europeans, and they were to turn their backs on past loyalties. As John Quincy Adams explained to a German nobleman: “They must cast off the European skin, never to resume it.

The most successful men and women on earth have had to correct certain weak spots in their personalities before they began to succeed. The most outstanding of these weaknesses which stand between men and women and success are INTOLERANCE, CUPIDITY, GREED, JEALOUSY, SUSPICION, REVENGE, EGOTISM, CONCEIT, THE TENDENCY TO REAP WHERE THEY HAVE NOT SOWN, and the HABIT OF SPENDING MORE THAN THEY EARN.

Statistics also show that, unfortunately, once someone seriously suspects infidelity, more often than not, their suspicion is correct.

Etta. Where were you taught such things?” “Such things as what?” There was definite suspicion in her voice now. “Such things as accepting life and making the best of it…” Spoken aloud, it seemed such a simple concept. Moments ago, those words had rung for him like great bells of truth. It was right, what they said: enlightenment was merely the truth at the correct time. “In a brothel.

Glass’s nature was to fret. He was intensely agitated by the pressure from bankers for a centralized scheme and worried that bankers had gotten to Wilson (a suspicion, of course, that was entirely correct).

I am plagued by my sins, Jonathan. I have seen good men and I have seen great. And I am confident of this one thing: the great are rarely the good, and the good are rarely the great.” “Do you think Yahweh controls only the good in this world and not the evil?” David answered, “Do you justify evil with such appeals to Yahweh’s sovereignty?” “Of course not. Yahweh punishes evil even in his chosen people. But they are no less chosen, because he does not choose them for their goodness or their greatness—for anything in them. He chooses them because of his own purposes. And he chooses his anointed one as well.” “What are you saying, Jonathan?” Jonathan took off his royal robe. “I have sought out the Seer Samuel to see if my suspicions were correct. And I have found my answer.” David’s knees grew weak. “David, you were not anointed to be a royal musician in the court of the king of Israel.” He opened the robe and walked up to David to drape it over his back. “You were anointed to be the next king of Israel.” David felt faint. He caught himself and sat down on his armoring chair, staring with shock into the air. Jonathan picked up his bow, his sword and belt, and handed them to David. “I strip myself of my rights to the throne to support Yahweh’s chosen and anointed one, the messiah king.” He bowed to his knee. David got up quickly.

What are you saying, Jonathan?” Jonathan took off his royal robe. “I have sought out the Seer Samuel to see if my suspicions were correct. And I have found my answer.” David’s knees grew weak. “David, you were not anointed to be a royal musician in the court of the king of Israel.” He opened the robe and walked up to David to drape it over his back. “You were anointed to be the next king of Israel.” David felt faint. He caught himself and sat down on his armoring chair, staring with shock into the air. Jonathan picked up his bow, his sword and belt, and handed them to David. “I strip myself of my rights to the throne to support Yahweh’s chosen and anointed one, the messiah king.” He bowed to his knee. David got up quickly.

Then I stare at him for a while trying to determine what he wants. And if I want to give it to him. And then I start to panic a little. What if he wants to have an awkward conversation? Like more awkward than me? Or ask me about my sexual history? Or if I cheated on my third-grade spelling test in Mrs. Kallam’s class? Okay, I admit that last one is a little specific and not likely to come up. But I’m still a little ashamed of myself for doing it. “Would you rather eat stale pretzels or stale Cheetos?” “What?” I look at him, not sure I heard him correctly. He tilts his head in a nod, like, ‘you heard me correctly,’ but repeats the question. “Um, stale pretzels, I guess.” “Go a week without the internet or a week without coffee?” Oh, we’re playing the ‘would you rather’ game. “Internet.” I smile. “I think. Wait maybe the coffee? No, the internet.” “Play Quidditch or use the invisibility cloak for a day?” “You did not just Harry Potter me.” “I did.” “Well, I’m not sure that’s even answerable.” I shake my head and groan a little. “Who wouldn’t want to play Quidditch? But the invisibility cloak, wow.” I sigh, a dreamy expression on my face. Boyd just stares as if he’s not moving on until I answer. “Quidditch.” I finally relent. “Why?” “It looks like fun. Plus the invisibility cloak is basically spying, right? And I don’t really need to spy on anyone so it would be a waste.” “No point in being wasteful,” he agrees. “Plus I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that I’d be really good at Quidditch.” And I can’t help it. This tidbit comes out a little smugly. Boyd lasts two seconds before laughing at me.

In a futile gesture against the overwhelming consensus, I did call a New York Times editor to complain about a damaging story portraying the AIG rescue as a backdoor bailout for Hank’s former colleagues at Goldman Sachs. I had asked Lloyd Blankfein about Goldman’s direct exposure to AIG; when he assured me Goldman’s exposures were relatively small and fully hedged, I made him send me the documentation. Still, the Times wouldn’t correct the record, and my call probably strengthened its suspicions. The same reporter later did a story portraying the entire crisis response team as servants of Goldman, accompanied by a vampire squid–like diagram with me in the middle. In the media, in the public, even in the financial community, we faced withering skepticism about our motives as well as our competence. After all, we had lent a mismanaged insurance company three years’ worth of federal spending on basic scientific research.

This morning Miss Marple lay thinking soberly and constructively of murder, and what, if her suspicions were correct, she could do about it.

Even at the tender age of twelve, when I knelt in front of the bishop for my confirmation, I had the sneaking suspicion that the Episcopal Church was just a politically correct social club for wealthy white people in designer clothes. p29

At some point, you will be tired or distracted or simply human and you will start to write or say your real name instead of your alias. It is far easier to correct your mistake without arousing suspicions if you have at least begun with the proper letter. Also, it means never having to change your monogram. Remember, ladies, your lives are lies now, but the fewer you tell, the simpler it is to keep them straight.

In the group of disorders referred to as tendonitis, the tendon is correctly identified as the offending part, but the reason given for the pain is incorrect. The anatomy is right, but the diagnosis is wrong. It is generally assumed that the painful tendon is inflamed because of overuse. So the treatment is to immobilize and rest the part and/or inject the tendon with a steroid (cortisone). Relief is often only temporary. Many years ago, the suspicion dawned on me that tendonitis (more properly called tendonalgia) might be part of TMS when a patient reported that not only had his back pain resolved with treatment but also his elbow had ceased to hurt. I put this to the test and, indeed, found that I could get resolution of most tendonalgias. I now consider tendon/ ligament to be the third type of tissue involved in TMS. Common sites of tendonalgia are the shoulder, elbow, wrist, hip, knee, ankle, and foot. (page 138)

Your suspicions are probably correct when you have an unsettling indication that something is not right.

I passed through the short chancel, and reached the step that led up to the small gate in the chancel-rail. I threw the beam from my lantern upon the dagger. Yes, I thought, it’s all right. Abruptly, it seemed to me that there was something wanting, and I leaned forward over the chancel-gate to peer, holding the light high. My suspicion was hideously correct. The dagger had gone. Only the cross-shaped sheath hung there above the altar.

You know, if I recall the historical records correctly, first contact with the Shrehari wasn’t nearly as complicated as this little family reunion with fellow sentients from Earth.” “Probably because when the Shrehari shot first, they didn’t miss,” Pushkin replied, deadpan.  “It set the tone for a refreshingly uncomplicated long-term relationship rather quickly, the current war excepted.  Besides, this is family business.” Siobhan looked at her first officer with the growing suspicion that he was amusing himself at someone’s expense.

Darius drained his wine and stood, leaving the half-finished bottle behind. “Well, I’m off.”   Shea looked up, a little surprised at the abrupt departure. Fallon, with his typical granite facade, didn’t even twitch. He took a slow sip of the wine and acknowledged Darius’s departure with a nod.   “Before I go, I suggest you take a look at your personal chambers.” With that last remark, Darius made his departure.   Fallon’s head tilted as he stared into his wine. Suspicion dawned on his face and he stood, making his way to their personal quarters without a word. Shea let him go as she calmly sipped her wine.   Three, two, one.   There was a crash in the other room and a stream of curses reached her ears. She trained her eyes on the front entrance and was only mildly surprised when no one ventured in to see if they were in any danger. Darius must have warned them. Smart man.   “Would you like to explain why there is a new entrance to our bedchamber?” Fallon’s silky voice came from behind Shea.   “You’re smart. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Shea took another sip of her wine.   He prowled closer, his movements containing a lethal edge.   “You were going to leave me.” He sounded like the very idea that she would contemplate such an action enraged him.   She raised an eyebrow. “Now why would I want to do that?” She gave him a long minute to answer. His eyes narrowed, taking on a dangerous glint “Ah, yes. Perhaps that’s because you treated me like a prisoner, having your guards keep me here whether I wanted to or not.”   He looked away. She felt a spurt of grim satisfaction. He knew he was in the wrong.   “That was for your own safety.”   “Bullshit. That was because you were angry and wanted to take it out on me.” She waited for him to correct her. When he didn’t, she continued, “I’m here because I want to be here. The next time you do something like that, expect me to be gone.”   She set her glass down and stood. Shea walked past an unmoving Fallon to their chamber, saying over her shoulder, “I suggest you station one of your men at our new entrance so that we’re not murdered in our sleep by one of your many enemies.

1. Try to make explicit the basis of any hunches and intuitions about whether or not someone is lying. By becoming more aware of how you interpret behavioral clues to deceit, you will learn to spot your mistakes and recognize when you don’t have much chance to make a correct judgment. 2. Remember that there are two dangers in detecting deceit: disbelieving-the-truth (judging a truthful person to be lying) and believing-a-lie (judging a liar to be truthful). There is no way to completely avoid both mistakes. Consider the consequences of risking either mistake. 3. The absence of a sign of deceit is not evidence of truth; some people don’t leak. The presence of a sign of deceit is not always evidence of lying; some people appear ill-at-ease or guilty even when they are truthful. You can decrease the Brokaw hazard, which is due to individual differences in expressive behavior, by basing your judgments on a change in the suspect’s behavior. 4. Search your mind for any preconceptions you may have about the suspect. Consider whether your preconceptions will bias your chance of making a correct judgment. Don’t try to judge whether or not someone is lying if you feel overcome by jealousy or in an emotional wildfire. Avoid the temptation to suspect lying because it explains otherwise inexplicable events. 5. Always consider the possibility that a sign of emotion is not a clue to deceit but a clue to how a truthful person feels about being suspected of lying. Discount the sign of an emotion as a clue to deceit if a truthful suspect might feel that emotion because of: the suspect’s personality; the nature of your past relationship with the suspect; or the suspect’s expectations. 6. Bear in mind that many clues to deceit are signs of more than one emotion, and that those that are must be discounted if one of those emotions could be felt if the suspect is truthful while another could be felt if the suspect is lying. 7. Consider whether or not the suspect knows he is under suspicion, and what the gains or losses in detecting deceit would be either way. 8. If you have knowledge that the suspect would also have only if he is lying, and you can afford to interrogate the suspect, construct a Guilty Knowledge Test. 9. Never reach a final conclusion about whether a suspect is lying or not based solely on your interpretation of behavioral clues to deceit. Behavioral clues to deceit should only serve to alert you to the need for further information and investigation. Behavioral clues, like the polygraph, can never provide absolute evidence. 10. Use the checklist provided in the appendix (table 4) to evaluate the lie, the liar, and you, the lie catcher, to estimate the likelihood of making errors or correctly judging truthfulness.

There is… nothing to worry about,” Claygon said, his footsteps thundering across the arena floor. “It will… be a treat for you… Probably.” “Ah, the probably word. Enough to arouse suspicion, but just vague enough to inspire fear!” Khalik said, turning to Isolde and Thundar. “Let us get away before Alex dissects us, shall we?” “Vivisects,” Isolde said. “Pardon?” “He will probably dissect us while we are still alive, therefore the correct term would be vivisection,” she said. “You know, I don’t think I care much either way,” Thundar said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.