D Sutton Quotes

Statistics or graphs,’” are not optimal to understand the ‘experience of suffering.’” (qtd in Sutton 11)

All I could feel was the pulse of our heartbeats where we joined, throbbing and pounding through every fibre in my body. We rocked back and forth, always kissing. And on the cold, cold ground by the flickering warmth of the fire, we made love. The way he held me, the way he looked at me, it was the closest to heaven I’d ever get without dyin’.

They'd done plenty of wild things in their time together, but Reeve's favorite and Sutton's too was when he asked her to beg for it. She always did, and he always made sure she was rewarded.

What she'd done was give him a glimpse of something that scared the bejesus out of him, something never meant for men like him that could start a hunger that would eat away what little was left inside him that didn't need to be shoved into the dark place.

I asked about the price of the guitars, reminding him that if expected me to man the cash register, I’d need to know what to charge. He told me, 'There ain’t no set price on these babies. Take what the customer offers you. Even if it’s his soul.

If you died, Fortuna, I'd follow you into whatever afterlife there is. The rest doesn't really matter, does it?

Well, hell. It was a lot harder not to stiffen for that one, but he steadied his breathing and kept holding her, all the while planning Jimmy Mondo’s death in gruesome and excruciating detail in his head. He’d need to talk to Chad about how to hide a body—he was pretty sure Chad knew that sort of thing.

Kevin knew he had to always outrun the enemy inside him, and if that meant playing football, he'd do it. During puberty, he had taken off running and found too late that he couldn't stop. In dreams that turned into nightmares he ran in fear, ripped from sleep in a sweat, shouting,"Run!

Do you even feel anything, Chad? Will you for once stop walking around, all in control and f'ing calm? Do you have any idea what you all have done. I lost everything, Chad. Everything, when Kyle died. I lost myself. I had finally begun to build a new life with new friends. With people I thought cared about me. I have started to be just a little bit happy again. Was it too much to ask? Did I ask for too much by just wanting to have a little bit of a life again? Now, it’s all screwed up again and you walk around here like you don’t feel anything about what’s happened.” Chad spun around, and for only the second time since she’d known him, she saw the flash of anger so fierce her breath caught in her throat and she took an involuntary step back, away from him. Jennie knew Chad would never hurt her on purpose, but the anger rolling off of him was palpable. It seemed to force her backwards as if it had a life of its own, a power of its own. “Not feel anything, Jennie? Are you f'ing kidding me? I walk around here every day and I ache every f'ing minute I’m with you. I’m so twisted up with loving you and hating you, I can’t breathe. I can’t keep my hands off you, but I can’t let myself kiss you because I might lose myself in you. I can’t make love to you because I’m afraid you’ll pretend I’m him. I know you want his arms around you, not mine. I know you want it to be his baby inside you, not mine. And I know you can’t love me back, no matter what I do, because you’re still so in love with your husband, you can’t even begin to see me.” Chad didn’t stop and Jennie didn’t try to stop him. “And every day, I have to sit here and wonder how I’ll be a part of my baby’s life. I wonder if you’ll let me be in the delivery room, if you’ll let me help you name the baby. I wonder how much money I’d have to offer the people who live across the street from you to get them to sell me their house, just so I can see my child grow up. If you’ll let me...” Chad stopped as if he’d run out of steam. They stood in uneasy silence for a long time before Chad spoke again. He sounded worn out and bitter and angry, mirroring Jennie’s chaos of emotions. “Am I feeling anything? Yeah. I’m feeling some f'ing sh**, Jen.

Slowly, Adams put away the mento-cap, reached out an almost reluctant hand and snapped up a tumbler. Alice answered. “Send me in the Asher Sutton file.

For the human race, thought Sutton, cannot even for a moment forget that it is human, cannot achieve the greatness of humility that will unquestioningly accord equality.

The name is Asher Sutton.

Sutton is a good man.

—Supongamos que ha viajado usted en el tiempo, hacia el pasado. ¿Para qué? —Para decirle a usted que Sutton regresará. [...] Cuando Sutton regrese —dijo el forastero—, tienen que matarle.

Tonight the worst danger in town was at her side, on her side, and she was safe. How long had it been since she’d felt like this, female, protected, almost floating with it? She couldn’t remember.

In the novel Fight Club, the character Jack’s apartment is blown up. All of his possessions—“every stick of furniture,” which he pathetically loved—were lost. Later it turns out that Jack blew it up himself. He had multiple personalities, and “Tyler Durden” orchestrated the explosion to shock Jack from the sad stupor he was afraid to do anything about. The result was a journey into an entirely different and rather dark part of his life. In Greek mythology, characters often experience katabasis—or “a going down.” They’re forced to retreat, they experience a depression, or in some cases literally descend into the underworld. When they emerge, it’s with heightened knowledge and understanding. Today, we’d call that hell—and on occasion we all spend some time there. We surround ourselves with bullshit. With distractions. With lies about what makes us happy and what’s important. We become people we shouldn’t become and engage in destructive, awful behaviors. This unhealthy and ego-derived state hardens and becomes almost permanent. Until katabasis forces us to face it. Duris dura franguntur. Hard things are broken by hard things. The bigger the ego the harder the fall. It would be nice if it didn’t have to be that way. If we could nicely be nudged to correct our ways, if a quiet admonishment was what it took to shoo away illusions, if we could manage to circumvent ego on our own. But it is just not so. The Reverend William A. Sutton observed some 120 years ago that “we cannot be humble except by enduring humiliations.” How much better it would be to spare ourselves these experiences, but sometimes it’s the only way the blind can be made to see.

And we were in our thirties. Well into the Age of Boredom, when nothing is new. Now, I’m not being self-pitying; it’s simply true. Newness, or whatever you want to call it, becomes a very scarce commodity after thirty. I think that’s unfair. If I were in charge of the human life span, I’d make sure to budget newness much more selectively, to ration it out. As it is now, it’s almost used up in the first three years of life. By then you’ve seen for the first time, tasted for the first time, held something for the first time. Learned to walk, talk, go to the bathroom. What have you got to look forward to that can compare with that? Sure, there’s school. Making friends. Falling in love. Learning to drive. Sex. Learning to trade. That has to carry you for the next twenty-five years. But after that? What’s the new excitement? Mastering your home computer? Figuring out how to work CompuServe? “Now, if it were up to me, I’d parcel out. So that, say, at thirty-five we just learned how to go on the potty. Imagine the feeling of accomplishment! They’d have office parties. "Did you hear? The vice president in charge of overseas development just went a whole week without his diaper. We’re buying him a gift." It’d be beautiful.

There’s always been books. All my bedraggled life, they’ve been the only constant. Even Sutton, my closest friend, had exclaimed, “What’s with the fucking reading, man? You used to be a guard, for christsakes.” Which is Irish logic at its finest. I’d said to him then and umpteen times since, “Reading transports me.

Collins was in the space capsule all alone. While his partners were down there collecting rocks, Collins was manning the wheel. Twenty-six times he circled the moon—solo. Imagine? He was completely out of radio contact. Couldn’t talk to his partners. Couldn’t talk to NASA. He was cut off from every living soul in the universe. If he panicked, if he fucked up, if he pushed the wrong button, he’d strand Armstrong and Aldrin. Or if they did something wrong, if their lunar car broke down, if they couldn’t restart the thing, if they couldn’t blast off and reconnect with Collins forty-five miles above the moon, he’d have to head back to earth all by himself. Leave his partners to die. Slowly running out of air. While watching earth in the distance. It was such a real possibility, Collins returning to earth by himself, that Nixon wrote up a speech to the nation. Collins—now that’s one stone-cold wheelman. That’s the guy you want sitting at the wheel of a gassed-up Ford while you’re inside a bank.

Faith,” said Dr. Raven gently, “is a powerful thing.” “Yes, powerful,” Sutton agreed, “but even in its strength it is our own confession of weakness. Our own admission that we are not strong enough to stand alone, that we must have a staff to lean upon, the expressed hope and conviction that there is some greater power which will lend us aid and guidance.

Jennie was beginning to accept how much she cared for him. He’d been her friend for so long. Her support in so many ways. He protected her. He cared for her without question whenever she needed him. But there was more than that. He made her feel special. Cherished. He made her laugh and he held her when she cried. So many men would have walked away from her a long time ago considering what she’d put him through. She knew it would never have crossed Chad’s mind to do that.

He chose a guitar from one of the oak cabinets. Picking it with his calloused fingers, he squeezed his eyes shut and hummed. Something miraculous poured from his soul, riding in on a lonely train, rising softly from a distant place— a place I’d never been— then louder and louder it came, traveling through my ears, pulsing through my veins. I’d never heard anything like it. When he finished playing, he sat with the guitar cradled in his arms, waiting, the music traveling through the forgotten city of my soul.

Coincidences are acts of God. They may seem random to us, but they aren’t to Him. If I’m going to believe He’s all powerful – and I do – then I have to believe He’s in control of everything that happens.” “Even the bad stuff? I thought God was supposed to be good. Loving.” Lana shifted to give Alex her full attention. “He is, but you know better than most people that there’s a lot of evil in the world. He could’ve made us puppets, but He wanted us to be able to make our own choices. Choices have a way of affecting others.” “Oh yeah? Then what about natural disasters? Nobody chooses for an earthquake or a hurricane to happen.” “Yeah and He protects countless people during those events. Who knows how many casualties we’d be looking at if He didn’t intervene. I know it doesn’t really answer all the questions, but part of faith is believing that God knows what He’s doing and trusting Him even when we don’t understand.

Consider James D. Sinegal, co-founder and CEO of Costco, a warehouse retailer. His salary in 2003 was $350,000, which is just about ten times what is earned by his top hourly employees and roughly double that of a typical Costco store manager. Costco also pays 92.5% of employee health-care costs. Sinegal could take a lot more goodies for himself, but has refused a bonus in profitable years because “we didn’t meet the standards that we had set for ourselves,” and he has sold only a modest percentage of his stock over the years. Even Costco’s compensation committee acknowledges that he is underpaid. Sinegal believes that by taking care of his people and staying close to them, they will provide better customer service, Costco will be more profitable, and everyone (including shareholders like himself) will win. Sinegal takes other steps to reduce the “power distance” between himself and other employees. He visits hundreds of Costco stores a year, constantly mixing with the employees as they work and asking questions about how he can make things better for them and Costco customers. Despite continuing skepticism from analysts about wasting money on labor costs, Costco’s earnings, profits, and stock price continue to rise. Treating employees fairly also helps the bottom line in other ways, as Costco’s “shrinkage rate” (theft by employees and customers) is only two-tenths of 1%; other retail chains suffer ten to fifteen times the amount. Sinegal just sees all this as good business because, when you are a CEO, “everybody is watching you every minute anyway. If they think the message you’re sending is phony, they are going to say, ‘Who does he think he is?

Most public companies spend less than 2 percent of their annual budgets on R&D.

I went back out into the main room, feeling a little like I’d been bulldozed. Mr. Sutton had such a forceful personality that even being in the same room with him was exhausting.

After all, we play games, and we’ve been taught to think of play as the very opposite of work. But nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, as Brian Sutton-Smith, a leading psychologist of play, once said, “The opposite of play isn’t work. It’s depression.”6 When we’re depressed, according to the clinical definition, we suffer from two things: a pessimistic sense of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity. If we were to reverse these two traits, we’d get something like this: an optimistic sense of our own capabilities and an invigorating rush of activity.

Onanism was hardly murder. Masturbation did not fall within the category of mania but instead was thought to cause mental and physical deterioration. I’d witnessed attempted cures involving mechanical restraints, surgery and moral discipline, most often delivered in clinical settings. None of which had probably been offered Mr. Tarski. I’d entered the cell expecting a monster. I left having met a simpleton. Tarski was not the Shoreditch killer.

Just remember you don’t have to be perfect at everything. We all make mistakes, and sometimes the best things come from those.

I sucked at reading social cues. Give me plants and animals over people any day.

said. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but we need to ask you some questions.’ ‘What for? What’s this about?’ Oxnard-Clarke responded haughtily. ‘Haven’t you seen the news, Your Lordship?’ the police officer asked. ‘There’s a story about a . . . well . . . a sex ring in London. You’ve been named as one of those involved, Your Lordship. The other man named is someone called Artem Vasylyk. He was found dead today, my Lord. Shot.’ Pearce was surprised by news of Vasylyk’s death, but he would always remember the moment Oxnard-Clarke’s confident veneer crumbled. The Viscount looked from the officer to Pearce, his fury building. ‘And we’ve had a call, my Lord,’ the officer added. ‘It came when we were on our way out. Saying that a Mr Scott Pearce is being held at Purbeck House against his will. Would that be you, sir?’ The question was directed at Pearce. He nodded. ‘I’m Scott Pearce.’ Oxnard-Clarke laughed, but it was hollow. ‘Mr Pearce is no prisoner.’ ‘If you’d like to leave, Mr Pearce, my officers can take you,’ the chief said. Pearce stared at Oxnard-Clarke. ‘I’d like that very much. One of the women, one of the victims of the ring, is in the house,’ he said. ‘I’d like her to come with me.’ Oxnard-Clarke could hardly conceal his anger. ‘If she’d like to go, I’m sure his Lordship wouldn’t object,’ the chief superintendent said. Oxnard-Clarke closed in on Pearce. ‘None of this will make the slightest bit of difference,’ he growled. ‘I will be out within the hour. You really think McClusky and Sutton are our only allies? All this will be lost in what

And some part of me still believed it. We’d done evil things. But that didn’t mean the game was flawed from the ground up. Not when men who shot their wives in the face could plaster their names all over the city and be remembered as good men, not when men’s potential was considered more important than women’s bodies, not when the game was so rigged against us all.

I realized what he was doing. What he was recreating. It was the date we’d imagined together, laying next to each other in a dingy motel room. I could still feel the scratchy sheet against my cheek and see the glow in his eyes.

I knew it immediately then, accepting the fact without faltering. Whatever happened with us now from here on out, it would all be worth it for this moment. To see her so thrilled as she ran down the street, looking like she was laughing as she did so. To know that I was able to make her feel this way, even just once. A hint of this realization had come when we went to the movies, when I’d looked over at her and found her snorting at the scary movie that literally gave me nightmares. But now, I knew it for a fact. Someone write it on a stone tablet. Whatever Gemma Settler wanted, I was in it for the long haul. And whatever would happen, it would be worth it. Just for this moment.

While England may have lost control over its colonies, the British East India Company simply changed its name—a simple d.b.a.—and kept on trading.

That argument worked until the state of California decided that each series would be taxed as a separate LLC. So instead of paying just $800 for one series LLC in California you would pay, in our four-asset example, $3,200 for the series—the same as if you’d used four separate LLCs with greater certainty of protection.

As she walked through the throngs of people, it was the first time at a charity event that she didn’t stop to meet and greet handfuls of people as she walked by. At any event, really. After all, that was their purpose.Well, networking was her purpose for attending.But now that she had a bit of space, she was just replaying the last half hour in her head, and it all left her with such a sour taste in the back of her mouth.Rather than the smile she typically fixed on, even in a bad mood, she was scowling by the time she reached Dean.“You look like you’re in a delightful mood.” He took a sip of the drink in his hand, pausing for a moment before he wondered aloud, “Here I thought you were on some sort of urgent covert mission, yet instead I find you slinking back in here looking all flushed with Sutton Spencer.”She didn’t need to see him to know that he was winking; his tone said it all.She shoved his shoulder. Harder than she’d originally intended, but she couldn’t control the frustration that was still bottled up. “Like I would do that here.” She didn’t say anything about whether or not she would do it with Sutton, because Dean might have been gay, but he was her friend; he knew her, and he had eyes.

One of Satya’s first moves was to abolish stack ranking. He worked to reverse the traditional emphasis on rewarding the smartest person in the room, who dominates and pushes around others. He encouraged people to ask questions and listen—to be “learn-it-alls” not know-it-alls. He pressed people to live the One Microsoft philosophy, that the company is not to be “a confederation of fiefdoms” because “innovation and competition don’t respect our silos, so we need to transcend those barriers.” To support this new culture, Satya changed the reward system so that the superstars were people who worked across silos and teams to build products and services with pieces that meshed together well. And so that people deemed as superstars were those who helped others succeed in their careers. The backstabbers who’d flourished under Ballmer changed their ways, left the company voluntarily, or were shown the door.

she’d

We’d been enticed (or perhaps duped) by what Harvard Business School’s Michael Norton and his colleagues call the “the IKEA effect,” which happens because “labor leads to love.” The upshot of their studies—building on research on cognitive dissonance that goes back to the 1950s—is that the harder we work at something, the more we will cherish it, independently of its other qualities. This happens because we humans are driven to justify our efforts to ourselves and others. We think and say, “That sure was a lot of work, but it was worth it,” whether or not it is true!

Bet you wish I’d rip off this condom and fill you until you’re dripping with my cum,

If I could take it all back, if i could spare you the hurt i caused, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Norah fussed over a little damage to a door and sleeping free in a store. She threw a fit over salvaging an abandoned plow. She trusted the law so much she’d been willing to risk Cal’s neck to the sheriff in Fischer. So what did it mean when a woman like that gave every sign of being willing to shoot a man in the back rather than let Ludlow arrest her husband for something she knew full well he did?

Caleb, when we got married, what kind of husband did you think you’d be?” “Rotten. I knew I’d make you miserable.” “I’m not miserable. Except for the trouble Van Cleve’s caused, I’m happy. You’re a very good husband.” At least that stopped the wriggling around. “I can’t be. You only just promoted me from evil to very bad.” “You’re a very bad man, but you’re a good husband.

Sure you are, but for now sit by the fire. Once you warm up you won’t need to smother yourself like that.” “There’s nothing to sit on.” “That’s why the Lord put extra padding on your backside, darling. Sit on that.” If looks could kill, he’d be a hundred times dead and moldering in the grave, but she sat.

If she shouted a complaint, and if Percy even heard her over the sound of engine, wheels, and wind, he’d tell her to be grateful for the superior craftsmanship that had gone into the vehicle and its door latches, and if he did that, she’d beat him over the head with that small valise and precipitate an accident that would kill them all.

Maybe she would have begged him anyway if she’d never heard his ideas about how people trapped themselves in poverty. They married with grand hopes—and then the babies came, or illness, or injury. The time to get ahead was before taking on those responsibilities, and he had wanted desperately to get ahead.

Around Norah, the calculated indifference he’d felt toward women all his life disappeared. She provoked temper and impatience and desires that had the ghosts howling with glee. He shoved them back down in the dark place they’d escaped from.

Cal decided he would push those girls out of the wagon if he had to, and maybe he’d leave Norah here too.

What's your name?" he asked. She'd turned to him with a deep frown, instantly terrifying him. About to turn to escape back into the bookshop, Walt was stopped by her shrug. "Cora." "That's a funny name." "It isn't, actually." Cora's frown deepened. She pulled herself up to her full height of four foot three inches. 'Officially my name is Cori, but Grandma calls me Cora. I'm named in honor of Gerty Cori, the first woman winner of the Nobel Prize in medicine. I bet you didn't know that." "No," Walt admitted, embarrassed. "I didn't." "What's your name?" "Walt," he offered quietly, expecting her to retort that his was an even sillier name, but she didn't. "After the scientist?" Walt frowned, thrown. "What scientist?" Cora shrugged. "Maybe Luis Walter Alvarez or Walter Reed, but... actually Walter Sutton is the most famous. He invented a theory about chromosomes and the Mendelian laws of inheritance." Cora let slip a little smile of satisfaction at the blank look on the boy's face. "Or maybe Walter Lewis-" "No," Walt interrupted, "I've never heard of any of them." "Oh." Cora folded her arms and tilted her nose upward. "Then who are you named after?" she asked, as if this was a given. "Walt Whitman," he retorted. "The poet.

Well, good. I figured you were, but…” He turned down our street and glanced at me. “Wait, there’s another guy, isn’t there?” He grinned. “Ugh, Dad. I’m not talking boys with you.” “What’s his name?” I feigned a scowl. “Does he go to Sutton?” I rolled my eyes. “Where’d you meet?” A smile cracked. We pulled into the driveway. “What’s he do?” I sighed then rattled off his answers. “Cade. He’s a therapy dog handler who volunteers at the hospital where I did my internship, and he works at the university rec center.” Dad let out a low, long whistle. “I approve.” I rolled my eyes again. “If you tell Mom, I’ll deny everything and tell her I’ve started dating girls.” “Your life choices don’t change how I feel about you, though your mom may be slow to come around.” “I’m not a lesbian, Dad.” “I’d love you even if you were.” “Dad.” I covered my face with my hands. “This conversation is so over.” He chuckled. “C’mon, short stack. Later, you can show me a picture of this young man or special lady in your life, that’s your choice.” I groaned. “That was meant to deter this conversation.” With another laugh, he hopped out, grabbed my suitcase from the back and unlocked the front door.

The pretty blond girl said, “Good evening, Mr. Sutton!” They were both clean-cut and smiling and neatly dressed, and for some reason, a reason Harry couldn’t put his finger on—a reason that he’d soon learn was primitive and instinctive and absolutely correct—Harry felt more fear than he’d ever felt in his life.

Walker, D. P. Spiritual and Demon Magic from Ficino to Campanella. Sutton Press. Ward, Benedicta, translator. The Desert Fathers: Sayings of Early Christian Monks. Penguin Classics. Wear, Andrew, R. K. French, and I. M. Lonie, editors. The Medical Renaissance of the Sixteenth Century. Cambridge University Press. Weaver, Elissa B. Convent Theatre in Early Modern Italy: Spiritual Fun and Learning for Women. Cambridge University Press. ________. Scenes from Italian Convent Life: An Anthology of Theatrical Texts and Contexts. Longo Editore. Weinstein, Donald, and Rudolph M. Bell, editors. Saints and Society. University of Chicago Press. Woolfson, Jonathan, editor. Renaissance Historiography. Palgrave Macmillan. Zarri, Gabriella, and Lucetta Scaraffia, editors. Women and Faith. Harvard University Press.

We’d honed our mission at Team Sutton to focus on after-school programs for kids in elementary and middle school in lower-income areas, where the extracurricular activities were just too expensive. The skills the kids learned from such things as playing in sports, participating in plays, and getting some extra help with their reading had lasting impacts on the rest of their life.

Anyone may so arrange his affairs that his taxes shall be as low as possible: he is not bound to choose that pattern which will best pay the Treasury; there is not even a patriotic duty to increase one’s taxes. (Federal Judge Learned Hand,Helvering v. Gregory , 69 F.2d 809 (2d Circ. 1934))

It stands for Appellation d'origine contrôlée. It just means some agricultural product that is special to a certain terroir, or place. Like—Roquefort cheese,

The instant that Devon stepped off the train at Alton Station, he was confronted by the sight of his brother in a dusty coat and mud-crusted breeches and boots. There was a wild look in West’s eyes. “West?” Devon asked in startled concern. “What the devil--” “Did you sign the lease?” West interrupted, reaching out as if to seize his lapels, then appearing to think better of it. He was twitching with impatience, bouncing on his heels like a restless schoolboy. “The London Ironstone lease. Did you sign it?” “Yesterday.” West let out a curse that attracted a slew of censorious gazes from the crowd on the platform. “What of the mineral rights?” “The mineral rights on the land we’re leasing to the railway?” Devon clarified. “Yes, did you give them to Severin? Any of them?” “I kept all of them.” West stared at him without blinking. “You’re absolutely sure?” “Of course I am. Severin badgered me about the mineral rights for three days. The longer we debated, the more exasperated I became, until I said I’d see him in hell before I let him have so much as a clod of manure from Eversby Priory. I walked out, but just as I reached the street, he shouted from the fifth-floor window that he gave in and I should come back.” West leaped forward as if he were about to embrace him, then checked the movement. He shook Devon’s hand violently and proceeded to thump his back with painful vigor. “By God, I love you, you pigheaded bastard!” “What the devil is wrong with you?” Devon demanded. “I’ll show you. Let’s go.” “I have to wait for Sutton. He’s in one of the back carriages.” “We don’t need Sutton.” “He can’t walk to Eversby from Alton,” Devon said, his annoyance fading into laughter. “Damn it, West, you’re jumping about as if someone shoved a hornet’s nest up your--” “There he is,” West exclaimed, gesturing to the valet, motioning for him to hurry.

[D]oing management work requires dozens -sometimes hundreds - of brief and fragmented tasks each day.

DUKE: I say, I really oughtn’t to know, but I’d always understood you couldn’t get a drink on board a ship until she sailed? TOM: Neither you can as a rule. That never struck me – but you won’t tell anybody, will you? DUKE: It’s very queer.

hors d’oeuvres: gougères, little cheesy puffballs; pissaladière, an onion tart; and brandade au morue, which was salt cod whipped with cheese and potatoes, ready to be scooped up with slices of toasted baguette.

Cheer up!" said Mr. Sutton when he'd read the letter. "Kathy Alice may come to see you!" All the children groaned. "Earnestine wants to meet your Aunt Myrtle and Uncle Ross and Kathy Alice here on Thanksgiving Day." "Tell her we won't be home," said Ellen. "Where will we be?" asked Dewey. "Anywhere except here," said Ellen, "if they're coming to see us.

This is a very fine nightshirt,” she remarked inanely. “I wasn’t even aware that I owned one, until Sutton brought it out.” Kathleen paused, perplexed. “What do you wear to sleep, if not a nightshirt?” Devon gave her a speaking glance, one corner of his mouth quirking. Her jaw went slack as his meaning sank in. “Does that shock you?” he asked, a glint of laughter in his eyes. “Certainly not. I was already aware that you’re a barbarian.” But she turned the color of a ripe pomegranate as she concentrated resolutely on the buttons. The nightshirt gaped open, revealing a brawny, lightly furred chest. She cleared her throat before asking, “Are you able to lift up?” For answer, Devon pushed away from the pillows with a grunt of effort. Kathleen let her shawl drop and reached beneath him, searching for the end of the cloth binding. It was tucked in at the center. “Just a moment--” She reached around him with her other arm to pull at the end of the cloth. It was longer than she’d expected, requiring several tugs to free it. No longer able to maintain the position, Devon dropped back to the pillows with a pained sound, his weight pinning her hands. “Sorry,” he managed. Kathleen tugged at her imprisoned arms. “Not at all…but if you wouldn’t mind…” Recovering his breath, Devon was slow to respond as he took stock of the situation. She was torn between amusement and outrage as she saw the glint of mischief in his eyes. “Let me up, you rogue.” His warm hands came up to the backs of her shoulders, caressing in slow circles. “Climb into bed with me.” “Are you mad?” As she strained to free herself, he reached for the loose braid that hung over her shoulder and played with it idly. “You did last night,” he pointed out. Kathleen went still, her eyes widening. So he did remember. “You can hardly expect me to make a habit of it,” she said breathlessly. “Besides, my maid will come looking for me soon.” Devon moved to his side and tugged her fully onto the bed. “She won’t come in here.