Denny The Room Quotes

We do have CIA agent Lily Carson in the room. You overseas folks know Lily very well." Wesley Bromwell joked. "Oxford University hasn't been the same since Lily left England with her masters degree.

SUN WAS in the room when he woke. He sat up and looked toward the bars, but the bars weren’t there. Just a window, lower than it should have been until he realized he was up

It's your living room, it's your life, go nuts. You like Home Improvement? Tape it and go over it like it's the Zapruder film.

Just because The Past always hung there upon its hooks on the game-room wall, you didn't have to pull it down and use it on yourself.

Rumors or no, Thomas, if the men strike, we'll see fecal gravity at work like never before. Ain't a man in this room who won't be covered in shit.

Eve and Denny were in love with the place. They spent almost the entire first night there rolling around naked in every room except Zoë’s.

I also believe that man’s continued domestication (if you care to use that silly euphemism) of dogs is motivated by fear: fear that dogs, left to evolve on their own, would, in fact, develop thumbs and smaller tongues, and therefore would be superior to men, who are slow and cumbersome, standing erect as they do. This is why dogs must live under the constant supervision of people.... From what Denny has told me about the government and its inner workings, it is my belief that this despicable plan was hatched in a back room of none other than the White House, probably by an evil adviser to a president of questionable moral and intellectual fortitude, and probably with the correct assessment—unfortunately, made from a position of paranoia rather than of spiritual insight—that all dogs are progressively inclined regarding social issues.

She’s only forty-two, which, okay, when she was twelve seemed like one foot over the threshold into God’s waiting room, but now, living it, is an age that makes her feel no different than she always has. She’s twelve, she’s twenty-one, she’s thirty-three, she’s all the ages at the same time. But she isn’t aging. Not in her heart. Not in her mind’s eye

When I walk into a room and see people engaging in conversation; I most of the time just get puzzled because I dont know what to say; therefore i dont talk to them

I don’t have room in my heart for most people. Got nothing against them, but I got nothing for them, either.

Guns, double-crosses, hitmen… I can get used to a lot of things, but I’m never going to get used to sleeping where apocalypse bugs mate,” Wednesday said, walking into the room looking around. She dropped her Birkin on the floor and heard something scuttling behind the cheap plastic wood print veneer covered dresser. She turned to face Alvin, her head cocked to the side. “Seriously. I’m not saying five-star… I’m saying go on Expedia and find a place that actually has stars… any stars.

(Quoted in Dennis Okholm's Monk Habits for Everyday People) Settle down in your room at a moment when you have nothing else to do. Say "I am now with myself," and just sit with yourself. After an amazingly short time you will most likely feel bored. This teaches us one very useful thing. It gives us insight into the fact that if after ten minutes of being alone with ourselves we feel like that, it is no wonder that others should feel equally bored! Why is this so? It is so because we have so little to offer to our own selves as food for thought, for emotion and for life. If you watch your life carefully you will discover quite soon that we hardly ever live from within outwards; instead we respond to incitement, to excitement. In other words, we live by reflection, by reaction... We are completely empty, we do not act from within ourselves but accept as our life a life which is actually fed in from the outside; we are used to things happening which compel us to do other things. How seldom can we live simply by means of the depth and the richness we assume that there is within ourselves.

Studied all year and wrote in my journal like a nun works a Rosary, dog with a new bone, bee in his hive’s back room.

Probing the corners of the room like a caged cat, fly caught in a jar, fart in an elevator.

A self-propelled forty-pound ball of steel impacting at Mach 1 didn’t leave much room for argument.

Hospitals strip a lot from you—your independence, your confidence, sometimes your will to live. But pettiness too. Pettiness is the first casualty of the ICU waiting room. No one has the energy for it.

The heretic was brought before the Supreme Judge unrestrained, there was no fear that he would flee. The room in which the heretic now stood was thoroughly secured, although the man had no intention of trying to escape anyhow.

That’s the ultimate anonymity. Me in a cabin in the woods somewhere. I imagine I’ll go to town once a week for groceries, make small talk with pleasant people that I will never get any closer to, and then go home.” “It sounds lonely,” he said. In the back of his head, he wondered if she didn’t have the right idea. “You can be lonely in a room full of people. And perfectly content in a cabin by yourself. It all depends on what you’re looking for in life.

Thank God for family. And thank God for a couple thousand miles of distance. When everyone was home at the same time, I could generally take it for about half an hour before I retreated into the basement. Usually, Dad followed about ten minutes later. There’d be the mutual eye-rolling, and we’d settle down without a word, to read or watch TV. My father and I were both loners by disposition. We could sit in the same room for hours, not say five words to each other, and both be completely comfortable. It drove my mother crazy.

When he finished his talk, I ran up to the front of the room, introduced myself, and just blurted out, "You're talking about it, I'm doing it! Let's get together! This is fantastic!" Minutes later, I just ran. I ran outside on pure adrenaline and threw up in the parking lot.

We pick up our shots and for the first time there's a total absence of sound in the room. From the ceiling, shy silver things blink and wait. Dennis doesn't sit, but hovers at the edge of the table, leaning in with a darkroom perfected slump. His hair hangs like its edges were dipped in lead. Thin spears pointing to the table. I'm looking at his face; we're both serious in a self-aware way, pretending not to notice. "It doesn't even feel like I left. God, you look fucking terrible. But it's a terrible face that drinks tequila well. Down. And cheers." We force a dull clash of cups and pour everything down at once. The hard tequila shudders that never happen in the movies. First your head feels light, then it starts receiving the distress signals from throat, lungs, belly. Your shoulders jerk to shake off the snake that wrapped around you and squeezed. It burns. The good burn.

But know this: whether you actively engage in the violent culture of hate or merely step out of the way to give it permission to persist and room to grow, you are complicit. And white people, you give permission to this culture every day you do nothing more than have “conversations on race.” You don’t get to just have conversations anymore. You don’t get to just wear a safety pin and call yourself an ally. You don’t get to just talk while the rest of us fear for our lives because discrimination, rape culture, and xenophobia just won the White House. Too often oppressed people are told to exhibit an inordinate amount of grace and patience while white people are “on their journey.” And it’s true: No one is born woke. We all have work to do and we should respect where people are. But as Dr. King reminds us, too often “wait means never,” and your journey may cost someone their citizenship, their religious freedom, or their life.

She was built along the lines of a General Electric refrigerator and looked like a cross between Caligula and a cockatoo. Mother Burnside had beady little eyes, an imperious beak of a nose, sallow skin, and bad breath. She wore a stiff black wig and a stiff black dress and she sat all day long in a darkened drawing room, her pudgy hands - encrusted with dirty diamond rings - folded over her pudgy belly.

And yet they acquired. They built scaffolds of debt, and just when it seemed the pile would come tumbling down from the weight, they bought a living room set on layaway, tossed it up on top. And as they needed to acquire, they seemed to need to discard in equal or larger measure. There was an almost violent addiction in the piles of trash he saw, the sense it gave him of shitting out food you shouldn’t have eaten in the first place.

A ghost doesn't just move normally. They have this freaky way of zipping across the room.  You see the ghost, you blink, and then it's suddenly behind you or up in your face and you scream and dig your nails into your boyfriend's knee and the he has marks there for like a week and I hope you're putting out for all that goddamn pain you put him through when you were the one who picked the movie even when you knew it was going to be scary.

He got a call from a journalist, who was in another room on the same floor. Come and join us for a drink, the journalist said. O’Leary walked across. There, he found a celebration of the broader Abbott family, select journalists, including conservative writers Piers Akerman, Miranda Devine, Greg Sheridan and Dennis Shanahan, and dignitaries such as Max Moore-Wilton, a former head of the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet under Howard.

Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's pleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile, "I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.

What’s it about?” Danny seemed authentically curious. “The night. It’s got its own set of rules.” “Day’s got rules too.” “Oh, I know,” Joe said, “but I don’t like them.” They stared through the mesh at each other for a long time. “I don’t understand,” Danny said softly. “I know you don’t,” Joe said. “You, you buy into all this stuff about good guys and bad guys in the world. A loan shark breaks a guy’s leg for not paying his debt, a banker throws a guy out of his home for the same reason, and you think there’s a difference, like the banker’s just doing his job but the loan shark’s a criminal. I like the loan shark because he doesn’t pretend to be anything else, and I think the banker should be sitting where I’m sitting right now. I’m not going to live some life where I pay my fucking taxes and fetch the boss a lemonade at the company picnic and buy life insurance. Get older, get fatter, so I can join a men’s club in Back Bay, smoke cigars with a bunch of assholes in a back room somewhere, talk about my squash game and my kid’s grades. Die at my desk, and they’ll already have scraped my name off the office door before the dirt’s hit the coffin.” “But that’s life,” Danny said. “That’s a life. You want to play by their rules? Go ahead. But I say their rules are bullshit. I say there are no rules but the ones a man makes for himself.

Inching into the room, it’s clear something is wrong here. There’s a tingling sensation up my legs and back before I can even really focus on the parlor’s details. There are silhouettes of people, but I can see through them. It’s like shadows were cast and left behind to do as they please. Lost in the surreal sight of them for a moment, I inch further into the room without noticing that some were now moving behind me. There is no warning. I’m suddenly in the air, and moving backward rapidly toward the wall. It’s almost a full second before my body registers the actual pain of the blow my stomach just took. Being hit by a car doesn't even compare to this, and I didn't even see it coming. “For a shadow, you hit like a sledgehammer!” The words barely escape before something else slams into the base of my skull embedding most of my upper body in the wall and all but removing my head. These things are like Lucy; the disembodied dead who haven’t moved on. I've never met others that can actually touch things physically, they must be fairly potent. I pull my face out of the hole it had been planted in, letting plaster dust fall, coating my chest and legs like snow. Looking around quickly I try to gauge my surroundings. I can’t see them, but I know they’re there. Is one easy night, without a huge dry-cleaning bill, too much to ask for these days? I only have time to dwell on it a moment before my head is bouncing off the hardwood floor; once, twice, and then a third time in quick succession. Now ‘pick splinters out of my forehead’ can be added to my Saturday night to-do list. Damn it, this is not going as planned.

My interest in comics was scribbled over with a revived, energized passion for clothes, records, and music. I'd wandered in late to the punk party in 1978, when it was already over and the Sex Pistols were history. I'd kept my distance during the first flush of the new paradigm, when the walls of the sixth-form common room shed their suburban-surreal Roger Dean Yes album covers and grew a fresh new skin of Sex Pistols pictures, Blondie pinups, Buzzcocks collages, Clash radical chic. As a committed outsider, I refused to jump on the bandwagon of this new musical fad, which I'd written off as some kind of Nazi thing after seeing a photograph of Sid Vicious sporting a swastika armband. I hated the boys who'd cut their long hair and binned their crappy prog albums in an attempt to join in. I hated pretty much everybody without discrimination, in one way or another, and punk rockers were just something else to add to the shit list. But as we all know, it's zealots who make the best converts. One Thursday night, I was sprawled on the settee with Top of the Pops on the telly when Poly Styrene and her band X-Ray Spex turned up to play their latest single: an exhilarating sherbet storm of raw punk psychedelia entitled "The Day the World Turned Day-Glo" By the time the last incandescent chorus played out, I was a punk. I had always been a punk. I would always be a punk. Punk brought it all together in one place for me: Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius novels were punk. Peter Barnes's The Ruling Class, Dennis Potter, and The Prisoner were punk too. A Clockwork Orange was punk. Lindsay Anderson's If ... was punk. Monty Python was punk. Photographer Bob Carlos Clarke's fetish girls were punk. Comics were punk. Even Richmal Crompton's William books were punk. In fact, as it turned out, pretty much everything I liked was punk. The world started to make sense for the first time since Mosspark Primary. New and glorious constellations aligned in my inner firmament. I felt born again. The do-your-own-thing ethos had returned with a spit and a sneer in all those amateurish records I bought and treasured-even though I had no record player. Singles by bands who could often barely play or sing but still wrote beautiful, furious songs and poured all their young hearts, experiences, and inspirations onto records they paid for with their dole money. If these glorious fuckups could do it, so could a fuckup like me. When Jilted John, the alter ego of actor and comedian Graham Fellows, made an appearance on Top of the Pops singing about bus stops, failed romance, and sexual identity crisis, I was enthralled by his shameless amateurism, his reduction of pop music's great themes to playground name calling, his deconstruction of the macho rock voice into the effeminate whimper of a softie from Sheffield. This music reflected my experience of teenage life as a series of brutal setbacks and disappointments that could in the end be redeemed into art and music with humor, intelligence, and a modicum of talent. This, for me, was the real punk, the genuine anticool, and I felt empowered. The losers, the rejected, and the formerly voiceless were being offered an opportunity to show what they could do to enliven a stagnant culture. History was on our side, and I had nothing to lose. I was eighteen and still hadn't kissed a girl, but perhaps I had potential. I knew I had a lot to say, and punk threw me the lifeline of a creed and a vocabulary-a soundtrack to my mission as a comic artist, a rough validation. Ugly kids, shy kids, weird kids: It was okay to be different. In fact, it was mandatory.

The journey through the house becomes a journey through time; with its small rooms and hidden corridors, its whispered asides and sudden revelations, it resembles a pilgrimage through life itself.

The most direct critique [in the TV series The Prisoner] of what might be called the politics-industry of late capitalism, however, is undoubtedly [the episode] “Free for All”, both the funeral dirge for the national mass party and the unofficial founding charter of the New Left. In many ways, “Free for All” is the logical complement to the visual innovations and luminous mediatic strategies of “A., B. & C.”; whereas the latter identifies the space of the editing room as a new kind of cultural zone, and thus transforms a certain visual recursion into a protomorphic video library of images, the former concentrates not on the image per se but on the messages and texts transmitted by such—or what Derrida would identify as the thematic of a dissemination which is never quite identical with what is being disseminated. But where deconstruction and post-structuralism promptly sealed off this potentially explosive insight behind the specialized ghettos of linguistics or ontological philosophy, and thus unwittingly perpetuated precisely the authoritarian monopoly over theory authorized by the ontologies in the first place, the most insightful intellectuals of the New Left (most notably, Adorno and Sartre) would insist on the necessarily mediated nature of this dissemination, i.e. the fact that the narrative-industries of late capitalism are hardly innocent bystanders in the business of accumulation, but play an indispensable role in creating new markets, restructuring old ones, and ceaselessly legitimating, transacting and regulating the sway of the commodity form over society as a whole.

She was mid-laugh, and so was Rhett as he looked at her. Dad and Uncle Denny were grinning in the background, holding their guitars under the Beck Brothers, Rhett Copeland, and Rogue Rebel Records signs the Ashe Crew had made and added to the room. Whatever filter Remi had used made the picture look grainy and old, as if it had been taken all those years ago. And as Juno and Rhett stared at the picture, she knew pieces of her really had died in her twenty-seventh year. But her favorite parts lived on and were growing. Perhaps love did that, or perhaps it was finding something she was truly passionate about, she didn’t know. All she knew was the day she’d found Rhett, he’d changed the course of her entire life for the better.

Pierre wakes up for good. As he's lying there yawning, he vaguely remembers a couple of false starts inspired by a ringing phone. He looks to his left. It's eleven. Next thing, he's stumbling down the hall toward his phone machine. 'Wait. Coffee,' he whispers in a shredded voice, veering back into the kitchen. He does what he has to, then plays back the messages, sips. Beep. 'It's Paul at Man Age. Appointment, twelve-thirty P.M., hour, Gramercy Park Hotel, room three-forty-four, name Terrence. Later.' Beep. 'Paul again. Appointment, two P.M., Washington Annex Hotel, room six-twenty, a play-it-by-ear, name Dennis, I think the same Dennis from last night. Check with us mid-afternoon. You're a popular dude. Later.' Beep. 'P., it's Marv, you there? . . . No? . . . Call me at work. Love ya.' On his way to the shower Pierre makes a stop at the stereo, plays side one of Here Comes the Warm Jets, an old Eno album. It's still on his turntable. It has this cool, deconstructive, self-conscious pop sound typical of the '70s Art Rock Pierre loves. He doesn't know why it's fantastic exactly. If he were articulate, and not just nosy, he'd write an essay about it. Instead he stomps around in the shower yelling the twisted lyrics. ' "By this time / I'd got to looking for a kind of / substitute . . ." ' It's weird to get lost in something so calculatedly chaotic. It's retro, pre-punk, bourgeois, meaningless, etc. ' ". . . I can't tell you quite how / except that it rhymes with / dissolute." ' Pierre covers his ears, beams, snorts wildly. Tying his sneakers, he flips the scuffed-up LP, plays his two favorite songs on the second side, which happen to sit third and fourth, and are aurally welded together by some distorted synthesizer-esque percussion, maybe ten, fifteen seconds in length. Pierre flops back in his chair, soaks the interlude up. It screeches, whines, bleeps like an orgasming robot.

I’m not afraid to die, she tells those buildings, the room, God. Not even a little bit. Then what are you afraid of? Living in a world without her.

Denny and McDaniel go into the percussion room and grab a bizarre metal contraption. Denny lifts it over his head and I give him a strange look, to which he responds like I’m a five year old, “Carr-i-er.

Denny gave me a strange look when I showed up in the band room, but I have always believed playing drums is no excuse not to look cute. Besides, if McDaniel shows up, I want to look my best. Oh, crap, I should be paying attention. “Did you hear anything I said?” I answer honestly, “No.” Denny runs a hand through his spiked hair and asks, “Do you really want to learn how to march?” “I have to learn to march if I want to be a part of the section, right?” “Right.” “Then, it doesn’t really matter if I want to do anything. It’s something I have to do.” Denny looks confused and partially like he’s completely regretting the decision to add me to his section, but proceeds to teach me drill for the better part of two hours. While we run through the steps, I look longingly over at my quints, which I have secretly decided to name Quincy.

Far from the cinematic drama of hospital emergency rooms, Slow Medicine embraces the unsung work of daily attention that is the greatest need and firmest foundation for longevity and quality of life at the farthest reach of age. Excellent chronic care attends to the day-to-day needs and conditions of the patient—by offering emotional support and social stimulation, supplying better nutrition, easing chronic skin and nail conditions, and making sleeping, moving, bathing, dressing, and voiding easier. Slow Medicine is the careful practice that most reliably sustains fragile patterns of well-being. This foundation for better elder care strengthens, rather than replaces, the selective use of high-tech care. During the time of the writing of this book, I have lived the

You can marry Denny, and I’ll still catch you stealing those starry looks at me across drawing rooms, ten years from now. You can share a bed with him, but I’ll still haunt your dreams. Perhaps once a year on your birthday— or perhaps on mine— I’ll contrive to brush a single fingertip oh-so-lightly between your shoulder blades, just to savor that delicious tremor.” He demonstrated, and she hated her body for responding just as he’d predicted. An ironic smile crooked his lips. “You see? You can marry anyone or no one. But you’ll always be mine.” “I will not,” she choked out, pulling away. “I will put you out of my mind forever. You are not so very handsome, you know, for all that.” “No, I’m not,” he said, chuckling. “And there’s the wonder of it. It’s nothing to do with me, and everything to do with you. I know you, Cecily. You may try to put me out of your mind. You may even succeed. But you’ve built a home for me in your heart, and you’re too generous a soul to cast me out now.” She shook her head. “I—” “Don’t.” With a sudden, powerful movement, he grasped her waist and brought her to him, holding her tight against his chest. “Don’t cast me out.” His mouth fell on hers, hard and fast, and when her lips parted in surprise, he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. He kissed her hungrily, thoroughly, without finesse or restraint, as though he hadn’t kissed a woman in years and might not survive to kiss another tomorrow. Raw, undisguised need shuddered through his frame as he took from her everything he could— her inhibitions, her anger, her very breath. And still she yearned to give him more. Arching on tiptoe, she threaded her hands into his hair and boldly touched her tongue to his. She’d been afraid to, the last time. But she wasn’t afraid now, and she wasn’t satisfied with a timid, schoolgirl kiss. Her body bowed into his, and he moaned as he kissed her deeper still. This was what she’d been dreaming of, for so long. His taste, his warmth, his strength surrounding her. This was Luke. This was Luke.

One entire wall was taken up by Hello Kitty merchandising. HK was interspersed throughout the whole room, but one entire wall had only Hello Kitty-branded objects. Backpacks, dresses, hats, ears, lunchboxes, decorative flowers, dog leashes, cat leashes, surface-to-air missiles, elder signs, sex toys, poker visors, hash pipes, soccer balls, blue balls, chainsaws, black books of diabolical import – you name it, it was branded with Hello Kitty or one of the associated characters. I saw what must have been a homemade green sculpture of Cthulhu that someone had replaced the Old One’s ugly mug with the mouthless cuteness of Hello Kitty. He and I stared at each other for one long and foreboding moment. The stars were indeed right.

I’m not going to marry Denny.” He paused. “You have told him this?” “Not yet. I will tell him soon.” “When did you decide?” “Last night.” She lifted her face to his and read pure male arrogance in the set of his brow, the little quirk at the corner of his lips. How like him, to think that disastrous kiss had changed everything. “No, not in the drawing room. I knew it later, in the forest.” He clucked his tongue. “Ah, Cecy. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with the werestag? I fear he will make you a prickly husband.” “Don’t be absurd. And stop deriding me for my honesty, while you hide behind that ironic smirk.” His eyes hardened, and he set his jaw. Curse him, he still wouldn’t let her in. Exasperated, she pushed back the piano bench and stood. “Of course I do not mean to wed a werestag,” she said, crossing to the window. “But that encounter showed me what I truly desire. I want the man who will be there when I need him. The man who will protect me, fight for me.” “I have fought for you, Cecily.” His voice was low, and resonant with emotion. “I have fought for you, protected you. I have suffered and bled for you.” He approached her, covering the Aubusson carpet with a lithe grace that made her weak in the knees. For a moment, she was reminded of the majestic white stag: the innate pride that forbade him to heed her commands; the sheer, wild beauty of his form. They were so alike, he and Luke. Cecily’s breath caught. What did he mean, he had fought for her, bled for her? Was he referring to last— “I have fought for you,” he repeated, thumping a fist to his chest. “Risked my life on battlefields— for you, and for Denny, and for Brooke and Portia and every last soul who calls England home. Is that not enough?” Mere inches separated them now. She swayed forward, carving the distance in half. Her heart drummed in her breast as she whispered, “No.” His eyes flared. “Cecy . . .” “It’s not enough.” She lifted one hand to his neck, curling her fingers into the velvety hair at his nape. Yes, every bit as soft as it looked. “I want more.” If their game was taunting, victory was hers. Grasping her by the hips, he crushed her to the wall and kissed her with abandon.

There should be a very formidable looking door in the room. It's got a text keypad on it. The answer is drawn from our experience. None of the clones should know it. Try not to mistype the answer. Get it wrong enough times and poison gas will flood the room, killing you." There was some whispering from off screen, causing Video Me to look over. "What? Really?" Video Me turned back to the screen. "Okay, turns out there's no poison gas, though I was promised poison gas. Anyway, get the code wrong long enough and the door won't open. You'll starve to death or some other horrible thing can happen. Maybe we'll have a death ray." More whispering from off screen. "Maybe we'll have a death ray," said Video Me tersely to the person off-screen.

This is the chapel to St Helena. This and the two rooms off to the side are part of the original palace owned and used by Saint Helena herself. We are two metres below the current building. This Roman statue is of Saint Helena holding the true cross of Christ. This glass covering on the floor is protecting the soil brought from Jerusalem.

What sort of answer would you like to hear?” “An honest one.” “Are you certain? It’s my experience that young ladies vastly prefer fictions. Little stories, like Portia’s gothic novel.” “I am as fond of a good tale as anyone,” she replied, “but in this instance, I wish to know the truth.” “So you say. Let us try an experiment, shall we?” He rose from his chair and sauntered toward her, his expression one of jaded languor. His every movement a negotiation between aristocratic grace and sheer brute strength. Power. He radiated power in every form—physical, intellectual, sensual—and he knew it. He knew that she sensed it. The fire was unbearably warm now. Blistering, really. Sweat beaded at her hairline, but Cecily would not retreat. “I could tell you,” he said darkly, seductively, “that I kissed you that night because I was desperate with love for you, overcome with passion, and that the color of my ardor has only deepened with time and separation. And that when I lay on a battlefield bleeding my guts out, surrounded by meaningless death and destruction, I remembered that kiss and was able to believe that there was something of innocence and beauty in this world, and it was you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. Almost. Warm breath caressed her fingertips. “Do you like that answer?” She gave a breathless nod. She was a fool; she couldn’t help it. “You see?” He kissed her fingers. “Young ladies prefer fictions.” “You are a cad.” Cecily wrenched her hand away and balled it into a fist. “An arrogant, insufferable cad.” “Yes, yes. Now we come to the truth. Shall I give you an honest answer, then? That I kissed you that night for no other reason than that you looked uncommonly pretty and fresh, and though I doubted my ability to vanquish Napoleon, it was some balm to my pride to conquer you, to feel you tremble under my touch? And that now I return from war, to find everything changed, myself most of all. I scarcely recognize my surroundings, except . . .” He cupped her chin in his hand and lightly framed her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Except Cecily Hale still looks at me with stars in her eyes, the same as she ever did. And when I touch her, she still trembles.” Oh. She was trembling. He swept his thumb across her cheek, and even her hair shivered. “And suddenly . . .” His voice cracked. Some unrehearsed emotion pitched his dispassionate drawl into a warm, expressive whisper. “Suddenly, I find myself determined to keep this one thing constant in my universe. Forever.” She swallowed hard. “Do you intend to propose to me?” “I don’t think so, no.” He caressed her cheek again. “I’ve no reason to.” “No reason?” Had she thought her humiliation complete? No, it seemed to be only beginning. “I’ll get my wish, Cecy, whether I propose to you or not. You can marry Denny, and I’ll still catch you stealing those starry looks at me across drawing rooms, ten years from now. You can share a bed with him, but I’ll still haunt your dreams. Perhaps once a year on your birthday—or perhaps on mine—I’ll contrive to brush a single fingertip oh-so-lightly between your shoulder blades, just to savor that delicious tremor.” He demonstrated, and she hated her body for responding just as he’d predicted. An ironic smile crooked his lips. “You see? You can marry anyone or no one. But you’ll always be mine.” “I will not,” she choked out, pulling away. “I will put you out of my mind forever. You are not so very handsome, you know, for all that.” “No, I’m not,” he said, chuckling. “And there’s the wonder of it. It’s nothing to do with me, and everything to do with you. I know you, Cecily. You may try to put me out of your mind. You may even succeed. But you’ve built a home for me in your heart, and you’re too generous a soul to cast me out now.” She shook her head. “I—” “Don’t.” With a sudden, powerful movement, he grasped her waist and brought her to him, holding her tight against his chest. “Don’t cast me out.” His

The man who’d years ago held her, kissed her, and left her in the morning without so much as an adieu. The man who saw no reason to marry her now. He was just going to do it all again. Hold her, kiss her . . . then leave her alone and yearning for him. Forever. She pushed against his shoulders, breaking the kiss. “Luke—” “Cecy,” he murmured, his mouth falling to the underside of her jaw. He burrowed into the curve of her neck, licking her pulse, catching her earlobe between his teeth . . . “Luke, no.” Her voice was thick. His hand slid up to roughly clutch her breast, and he nipped her ear, hard. Pain and pleasure shot through her, and she dug her fingernails into his neck. For a mad moment, she wanted to bite him too. To punish him, mark him . . . to taste him one more time. “Stop.” She fisted her hands in his hair and tugged. “Stop.” He froze, then slowly raised his head. His lips still held the shape of a kiss, and she slapped his cheek hard enough to make them go slack. “Stop,” she repeated clearly. “I won’t let you do this to me again.” He blinked, slowly relinquishing his grip on her breast. Then releasing her entirely. Cecily knew better than to expect an apology. She smoothed the front of her gown. “I ought to have Denny cast you out of this house.” “You should.” Luke stared at her, rubbing his jaw with one hand. “But you won’t.” “You think you know me so well? It’s been four years. I’m not that naïve, infatuated girl any longer. People change.” “Some people do. But not you.” “Just watch me, Luke.” She backed out of the room. “Just watch me.

She looked at Word. “You asked about X-it. He’s sleeping. There are no intruders in his consciousness. I’ve done a sweep. Several installations, their A-I and Super-Recognizers have all been rendered inoperable, but others will quickly pick up the slack. Some will malfunction. All are on high alert. They know contact has been made, that you are still alive, and a global search has begun. No A-I or human Super-Recognizer can penetrate the room that you were in and in which X-it is now sleeping. But he cannot come out of the room until we are ready to return to the second in time when Death saved you.

After centuries of silence, someone or something was lying outside on the stone step . . . “Are you deaf?” Death asked arriving abruptly with screams and cries and a fetid smell of rotting matter filling the room. “Why are you here?” the Old Crone asked, knowing the answer before she asked the question. “Go away.” “When someone knocks you’re supposed to open the door!” Death said, coughing as though she had swallowed a lot of water. “What are you doing here?” the Old Crone asked again “and why are you amorphous? Show yourself! I don’t like it when you look like nothing at all.” “Open the door!” Death rasped, appearing as a drowned cat coughing up minnows and river detritus. “Our future depends upon it!

I’m not going to marry Denny.” He paused. “You have told him this?” “Not yet. I will tell him soon.” “When did you decide?” “Last night.” She lifted her face to his and read pure male arrogance in the set of his brow, the little quirk at the corner of his lips. How like him, to think that disastrous kiss had changed everything. “No, not in the drawing room. I knew it later, in the forest.” He clucked his tongue. “Ah, Cecy. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with the werestag? I fear he will make you a prickly husband.” “Don’t be absurd. And stop deriding me for my honesty, while you hide behind that ironic smirk.” His

That’s how the Sukulowskis got out?” Captain Byner asked. “Yup.” Joe lit a cigarette. “Where’d they end up?” Joe tossed his match in the ashtray. “You don’t really want to know.” Rico said, “Gentlemen, I agree with you. Freddy was a fucking asshole going after Montooth in the first place.” Freddy, already aggrieved, looked even more dismayed. “You were.” Rico looked Freddy in the eye and formed a circle with the thumb and index of his right hand. “Huge asshole. Size of a fucking paint can.” He turned to the other men in the room. “But, gents, we can’t let a nigger kill a white man. Even if it’s a nigger we like, and I like Montooth Dix. I’ve broken bread with the man. But still. And we can’t let a guy who’s not in our thing kill someone who is. No matter what. Dion? Joe? You two taught

You, you buy into all this stuff about good guys and bad guys in the world. A loan shark breaks a guy's leg for not paying his debt, a banker throws a guy out of his home for the same reason, and you think there's a difference, like the banker's just doing his job but the loan shark's a criminal. I like the loan shark better because he doesn't pretend to be anything else, and I think the banker should be where I am sitting right now. I'm not going to live some life where I pay my fucking taxes and fetch the boss a lemonade at the company picnic and buy life insurance. Get older, get fatter, so I can join a men's club in Back Bay, smoke cigars with a bunch of assholes in a back room somewhere, talk about my squash game and my kid's grades. Die at my desk, and they'll already have scraped my name off the office door before the dirt's hit the coffin.

There is too little room to have too many radical and independent thinkers.

room was brightly lit, the floor and walls white marble. At the far end were four black marble, square coloumns supporting a large roof, atop of which was a simple gold cross. Behind this, at the far end of the room was a glass case surrounded by brown marble.   “It’s beautiful,” Natalie said.   “This is the chapel of the holy relics,

Where is Mistress Denny? I thought she was going to bring Angus herself." John tried unsuccessfully to mask a smile. His eyes watered from laughter and he brought up his sleeve to wipe them, turning slightly away from Ruairi. When the man laughed, he looked ten years younger. "Ye see, my laird, Angus leaped on Mistress Denny and pushed her down into a pile of horse manure. When a couple of Ruairi's men passed in front of Torquil's door carrying a tub, Ruairi stared at John and then turned to Fagan as the men burst out laughing. Fagan threw back his head, slapping his hands on his thighs. "You couldn't just leave well enough alone, could you?" asked a voice from the hall. Ravenna stepped into the room and the men gazed at her with wide eyes. When Angus rose and attempted to move toward her, she help up her hand to stay him. "Don't. You. Dare. You wicked, wicked beast. I've had enough of you for one day. Sit Down!" When Angus sat on command, Fagan murmured, "Bloody coward.

Okay, so one night a couple of weeks ago – it would have been about the same time as the Hop, I suppose – Niall’s sister and her friend are down in their room, rehearsing. They get quite caught up in what they’re doing and they end up staying down longer than they planned.’ ‘This friend, is she hot?’ Mario puts in. ‘I have seen Niall’s sister, thanks but no thanks – however, how about the friend?’ ‘I haven’t met her,’ Dennis says. ‘It doesn’t really affect the story either way.’ ‘Yes, yes, carry on.

When they reached the top level, Susan turned to the left. The corridor had raised wallpaper in a classic floral design and nothing else. No small tables, no chairs, no pictures in frames, no Oriental runners. They passed by maybe a dozen rooms, only two with doors open. Myron noticed that the doors were extra wide and he remembered his visit to Babies and Children’s Hospital. Extra wide doors there too. For wheelchairs and stretchers and the like. When they reached the end of the corridor, Susan stopped, took a deep breath, looked back at Myron. “Are you ready?” He nodded. She opened the door and stepped inside. Myron followed. A four-poster antique bed, like something you’d see on a tour of Jefferson’s Monticello, overwhelmed the room. The walls were warm green with woodwork trim. There was a small crystal chandelier, a burgundy Victorian couch, a Persian rug with deep scarlets. A Mozart violin concerto was playing a bit too loudly on the stereo. A woman sat in the corner reading a book. She too started upright when she saw who it was. “It’s okay,” Susan Lex said. “Would you mind leaving us for a few moments?” “Yes, ma’am,” the woman said. “If you need anything—” “I’ll ring, thank you.” The woman did a semi-curtsy/semi-bow and hurried out. Myron looked at the man in the bed. The resemblance to the computer rendering was uncanny, almost perfect. Even, strangely enough, the dead eyes. Myron moved closer. Dennis Lex followed him with the dead eyes, unfocused, empty, like windows over a vacant lot.

The mosaics on the ceiling were originally done in the fifth century during the reign of the Roman emperor Valentinian II. They were re-done in the fifteenth century. In the second room of the chapel there is a fourth century statue with the inscription to St Helena on it. The room opposite this one is the Gregorian chapel which was built between 1495 and 1520. It is an exact copy, a mirror image of the St Helena chapel.

It was Sunday-morning services and these Sunday-afternoon dinners with the fine china and the whitest linen and something classical and delicate tinkling from the Victrola, like the sounds from a past none of them could point to. That’s where the other Greenwood got to Luther most—in that music. You only had to hear but a few bars to know it was white. Chopin, Beethoven, Brahms. Luther could just picture them sitting at their pianos, tapping away in some big room with polished floors and high windows while the servants tiptoed around outside. This was music by

The question remained, as it had throughout Danny’s life, as to what exactly the good was. It had something to do with loyalty and something to do with the primacy of a man’s honor. It was tied up in duty, and it assumed a tacit understanding of all the things about it that need never be spoken aloud. It was, purely of necessity, conciliatory to the Brahmins on the outside while remaining firmly anti-Protestant on the inside. It was anticolored, for it was taken as a given that the Irish, for all their struggles and all those still to come, were Northern European and undeniably white, white as last night’s moon, and the idea had never been to seat every race at the table, just to make sure that the last chair would be saved for a Hibernian before the doors to the room were pulled shut. It was above all, as far as Danny understood it, committed to the idea that those who exemplified the good in public were allowed certain exemptions as to how they behaved in private.

In the weeks since a mysterious fatigue had confined him to his bed, Gregory and Dennis had perfected the art of conversing between rooms.

She knew that sometimes a well-placed question could effect a significant change in direction. She also knew that Palmer was not a dyed-in-the-wool right-winger; he was not opposed to energy efficiency per se, just disagreed about the appropriate constitutional delivery. She leaned forward and asked him, ‘How would you do it, Sir Geoffrey?’ he replied at length, expounding on all the ways it could be done. Dennis Marshall, the select committee chair, looked at Jeanette and back at Sir Geoffrey and said, ‘Professor Palmer, would you like to assist the committee with a redraft?’ Jeanette loved to tell this story and would joyfully recount watching the expression on the face of the ministry of commerce official at the back of the room go from a grin to a horrified grimace as Palmer said yes. With Palmer’s help, an ambitious first attempt at writing law grew to become a fine piece of legislation. (the EECA)

He did not add that he had also bucked logs, worked in a cannery and a furniture factory, robbed gas stations, rolled drunks, and lived in half a hundred arid furnished rooms, pretended the vacuum was freedom, wakened almost daily to the fear that time was a dry wind brushing away his youth and his strength, and slept through as many nightmares as there were nights to dream. He just sat and smiled at Denny and saw what time had done to him and wondered, now comfortably, why he was so bothered by time. It happens to everybody this way, he thought, we sit here and get older and die and nothing happens.

制作UoN文凭成绩单So, at the hour when the galleries were totally deserted, Tom Dennis was striding up and down in the Japanese Room, past the cases filled with lacquer ware.

Victor Hamilton writes: “Regarding the serpent’s origin, we are clearly told that he was an animal made by God. This information immediately removes any possibility that the serpent is to be viewed as some kind of supernatural, divine force. There is no room here for any dualistic ideas about the origins of good and evil.

Even so young, something in the girl’s mind craved order.  He’d read about this topic over the last few years. People were different even if they were the same, for no two people were ever an exact copy. Some people happened to be ‘different’ in a way that made them unsuitable to function in society. Similar to how there was no real room for head-in-the-clouds philosophers in a world of down-to-earth violence, this little one had never truly had a place where her particular differences were accepted. She must have felt so lonely, and isolated

As I near the locker room, I see Coach Sal—AKA my dad—out there with his clipboard, and he waves me over. “Dennis, what the fuck?” “Morning, Coach Sal.

While Meg, Ariel, Katie, Suzanne, and Denni danced around the room whooping and hollering, I sat down on a bench and put my chin into my hands. I felt very, very lucky. Eric’s photos would be at the dance. I’d made some great new friends. I’d learned a big lesson about lying, and I knew now that being plain, old, ordinary Becky Blair was just fine. Great, in fact! I grinned to myself, thinking about something else, too. Triple Tropical Bubble Gum had practically saved my life. I guess that means that just about anything can happen--especially at Camp Pinetree.

If you put one hundred black people and one hundred white people in a neighborhood and have them grow up together from childhood, they’re going to think of each other as one. They won’t draw lines to separate themselves. They won’t see it as black-and-white. It would be like one big locker room where people aren’t afraid to say whatever they want, knowing it won’t be taken the wrong way.

Phil Jackson, the coach who has won the most NBA championships, was once asked about his famously flaky superstar Dennis Rodman, “Since Dennis Rodman is allowed to miss practice, does this mean other star players like Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen can miss practice, too?” Jackson replied, “Of course not. There is only room for one Dennis Rodman on this team. In fact, you really can only have a very few Dennis Rodmans in society as a whole; otherwise, we would degenerate into anarchy.

The zombie stood in the middle of the room. With my underwear on his face. Stupidly, I wanted to laugh.

Usually what happens is, I spend half an hour lusting after scarves in Denny and George, then go off to Accessorize and buy something to cheer myself up. I’ve got a whole drawerful of Denny and George substitutes. “Hi,” I say, trying to stay calm. “You’re … you’re having a sale.” “Yes.” The blond girl smiles. “Bit unusual for us.” My eyes sweep the room. I can see rows of scarves, neatly folded, with dark green “50 percent off” signs above them. Printed velvet, beaded silk, embroidered cashmere, all with the distinctive “Denny and George” signature. They’re everywhere. I don’t know where to start. I think I’m having a panic attack.

In the morning, Denny walked from his caravan to the farmhouse to grab some breakfast, saw the wreckage Jimmy had left, and hoofed it up to High Park to warn Paul about the mess, adding “it’s nothing to do with me.” The other caravan dwellers slowly discovered the scene. No one had any doubts about who caused it. “Damage had been done to the cottage, and this became apparent to me when we went up for breakfast,” Tim Summerhayes related. “I know that Paul had become involved and he was coming down to the cottage.” Summerhayes returned to his caravan. “It seemed fitting that I should not be there. I don’t know what was said, but I never saw Jimmy again.”39 One witness who remained, however, reported that Paul went into Jimmy’s room, pulled him out of bed and ordered him to pack up and get off his property, adding that if he came near Paul again, Paul would kill him.

Dan had some questions about Chris-R. We all did. Why the name “Chris-R,” for instance? What’s with that hyphen? Tommy’s explanation: “He is gangster.” What about this drug business, which never comes up either before or after Chris-R’s only scene in the film? “We have big problem in society with the drugs. Chris-R is gangster and Denny takes drugs. So he must be rescued.

I’d never seen my mom look so fierce, not even when I set the living room on fire that one time.