Cur Stock Quotes

is this the roleplay where you sit around a table pretending to be an elf, or the roleplay where you go to the woods and actually dress up like an elf?” Terry balked at the oversimplification. “Actually, it’s a lot more nuanced than that.” Nat swivelled in her chair to find him wearing cotton stockings, a suede harlequin patch tunic and a pair of pointy rubber ear tips poking from his mess of curly brown hair. “Jesus wept,” she responded, understandably. “What’s the matter? Is it my bow?” He unhooked a plastic shortbow from his shoulder and drew back the string. “It might not look like much but let me tell you, I’ve cut down armies with this bad boy.” “Is that right?” “Yeah, I call him Widowmaker.” “And how did your wife die exactly? From shame?” “That’s not why it’s called—” Terry started, then sagged his shoulders. “You’re mean.” Nat

Some people smoked when they were upset, some did yoga, or drank, or paced, or picked fights, or counted to one hundred. Georgia cooked. As a small girl growing up in Massachusetts, she'd spent most of her time in her grandmother's kitchen, watching wide-eyed as Grammy kneaded the dough for her famous pumpernickel bread, sliced up parsnips and turnips for her world-class pot roast, or, if she was feeling exotic, butterflied shrimp for her delicious Thai basil seafood. A big-boned woman of solid peasant stock, as she herself used to say, Grammy moved around the cramped kitchen with grace and efficiency, her curly gray hair twisted into a low bun. Humming pop songs from the forties, her cheeks a pleasing pink, she turned out dish after fabulous dish from the cranky Tappan stove she refused to replace. Those times with Grammy were the happiest Georgia could remember. It had been almost a year since she died, and not a day passed that Georgia didn't miss her. She pulled out half a dozen eggs, sliced supermarket Swiss and some bacon from the double-width Sub-Zero. A quick scan of the spice rack yielded a lifetime supply of Old Bay seasoning, three different kinds of peppercorns, and 'sel de mer' from France's Brittany coast. People's pantries were as perplexing as their lives.

Henry escorted us deeper into the Foundry and before long we began encountering other employees. Some were merely odd – like the wild-haired, wild-eyed man in a white lab coat who kept telling a pop-eyed hunchback in a black cloak that his name was supposed to be pronounced "Fronk-en-steen," along with the handsome young man with curly black hair wearing a corset, fishnet stockings, 70s glam-rock boots, and far too much make-up.

Sorry, lass,” he said, with a half-smile. “I’m a marrit man.” He made to pass by, and she made a small incoherent sound, putting out a hand to stop him, but not quite daring to touch his sleeve. He stopped and looked at her more closely. “No, I meant it; I’ve a wife at home, and home’s not far,” he said, evidently wishing to be courteous. “But—” He stopped, close enough now to take in the grubbiness of her clothes, the hole in the sleeve of her coat and the tattered ends of her stock. “Och,” he said in a different tone, and reached for the small leather purse he wore tied at his waist. “Will ye be starved, then, lass? I’ve money, if you must eat.” She could scarcely breathe. His eyes were dark blue, soft with kindness. Her eyes fixed on the open collar of his shirt, where the curly hairs showed, bleached gold against his sunburnt skin. “Are you—you’re Jamie Fraser, aren’t you?” He glanced sharply at her face. “I am,” he said. The wariness had returned to his face; his eyes narrowed against the sun. He glanced quickly behind him, toward the tavern, but nothing stirred in the open doorway. He took a step closer to her. “Who asks?” he said softly. “Have you a message for me, lass?” She felt an absurd desire to laugh welling up in her throat. Did she have a message? “My name is Brianna,” she said. He frowned, uncertain, and something flickered in his eyes. He knew it! He’d heard the name and it meant something to him. She swallowed hard, feeling her cheeks blaze as though they’d been seared by a candle flame. “I’m your daughter,” she said, her voice sounding choked to her own ears. “Brianna.” He