Doxie Quotes

This liberal doxy must be impaled on the member of a particularly large stallion!

There are two kinds of statistics, the kind you look up and the kind you make up.

Orthodoxy is my Doxy, Heterodoxy is the other fellow’s Doxy.

Orthodoxy is my doxy and heterodoxy is your doxy.

I was his wife, not his doxy. He was my husband, not my house-dog. He was to live the life he thought best and fittest for a great man

When people's brains stop working, just go somewhere else." (Death of a Doxie)

Five and twenty sturdy budges, bulks, files, clapperdogeons and maunders, counting the dells and doxies and other morts. Most are here, the rest are wandering eastward, along the winter lay. We follow at dawn.

This life’s a dream, a fleeting show!’ no indeed. That isn’t my ‘doxy.’ I don’t think that nothing is worth doing, but that everything is worth doing — everything good, of course — and that everything which does good for a moment does good for ever, in art as well as in morals.

M-m-master, when I was on the Quasar I had a paracoita, a doll, you see, a genicon, so beautiful with her great pupils as dark as wells, her i-irises purple like asters or pansies blooming in summer, Master, whole beds of them, I thought, had b-been gathered to make those eyes, that flesh that always felt sun-warmed. Wh-wh-where is she now, my own scopolagna, my poppet? Let h-h-hooks be buried in the hands that took her! Crush them, master, beneath stones. Where has she gone from the lemon-wood box I made for her, where she never slept at all, for she lay with me all night, not in the box, the lemon-wood box where she waited all day, watch-and-watch, Master, smiling when I laid her in so she might smile when I drew her out. How soft her hands were, her little hands. Like d-d-doves. She might have flown with them about the cabin had she not chosen instead to lie with me. W-w-wind their guts about your w-windlass, snuff their eyes into their mouths. Unman them, shave them clean below so their doxies may not know them, their lemans may rebuke them, leave them to the brazen laughter of the brazen mouths of st-st-strumpets. Work your will upon those guilty. Where was their mercy on the innocent? When did they tremble, when weep? What kind of men could do as they have done—thieves, false friends, betrayers, bad shipmates, no shipmates, murderers and kidnappers. W-without you, where are their nightmares, where are their restitutions, so long promised? Where are their abacinations, that shall leave them blind? Where are the defenestrations that shall break their bones, where is the estrapade that shall grind their joints? Where is she, the beloved whom I lost?

In the glossaries of cant or theives' talk we are given a veritable dramatis personae of the land rovers, all those who rejected wage labor: the Abraham-men, palliards clapperdudgeons, whipjacks, dummerers, files, dunakers, cursitors, Roberds-men, swadlers, prigs, anglers, fraters, rufflers, bawdy-baskets, autem-morts, walking morts, doxies, and dells.

Hermione. “I confiscated that too. None of these things actually works you know —” “Dragon claw does work!” said Ron. “It’s supposed to be incredible, really gives your brain a boost, you come over all cunning for a few hours — Hermione, let me have a pinch, go on, it can’t hurt —” “This stuff can,” said Hermione grimly. “I’ve had a look at it, and it’s actually dried doxy droppings.” This information took the edge off Harry and Ron’s desire for brain stimulants. They received their examination schedules and details of the procedure for O.W.L.s during their next

What?” “Marry her,” Dev said flatly. “She’s too pretty to be a housekeeper and too well spoken to be a doxy. She won’t be cowed by His Grace, and she’ll keep you in fresh linens and good food all your days.” “Dev?” Westhaven cocked his head. “Are you serious?” “I am. You have to marry, Westhaven. I would spare you that if I could, but there it is. This one will do admirably, and she’s better bred than the average housekeeper, I can tell you that.” “How can you tell me that?” “Her height for one thing,” Dev said as they made for the house. “The peasantry are rarely tall, and they never have such good teeth. Her diction is flawless, not simply adequate. Her skin is that of lady, as are her manners. And look at her hands, man. It remains true you can tell a lady by her hands, and those are the hands of a lady.” Westhaven frowned, saying nothing. Those were the very observations he had made of Anna while they rusticated at Amery’s. She was a lady, for all her wielding of dusters and wearing of caps. “And yet she says her grandfather was in trade,” Westhaven noted when they arrived to the kitchen. “He raised flowers commercially, and she bouquets the house with a vengeance. We’re also boasting a very well-stocked pantry and a supply of marzipan for me. The sweet of your choice will be stocked, as well, as I won’t take kindly to your pinching mine.” “Heaven forefend,” Dev muttered as Westhaven procured a fistful of cookies.

Oddly enough, I had found somebody. What, what? Deeply dead Dexter dating débutante doxies? Sex among the Undead? Has my need to imitate life gone all the way to faking orgasms?

It’s the crop.

l'orthodoxie c'est ma doxie à moi; l'étérodoxie c'est votre doxie à vous".

Welcome to the coop. This here is Moxie, Doxie, Dixie, Lucy, Minnie, Meg, and Shithead.

Right belief (or what some refer to as orthodoxy: Latin, ortho, “right” + doxy, “glory, teaching, belief”) has long been considered foundational to Christianity, but so have other dimensions of it. Other Christian values include right action (orthopraxy), a right heart (orthokardia), and a right society (orthosocietas).7 Christianity ought not to be understood one-dimensionally; it is holistic, embracing the whole of God’s creation and redemptive work in the world.

Doxies

Business is taboo at the dinner table, but crime and criminals aren’t, and the Rosenberg case hogged the conversation all through the anchovy fritters, partridge in casserole with no olives in the sauce, cucumber mousse, and Creole curds and cream. Of course it was academic, since the Rosenbergs had been dead for years, but the young princes had been dead for five centuries, and Wolfe had once spent a week investigating that case, after which he removed More’s Utopia from his bookshelves because More had framed Richard III.

You should know that your only safe secrets are those you have yourself forgotten.

Byron wrote ‘The glory and the nothing of a name,

heretics can validly administer all the other Sacraments, with the sole exception of Penance, 30 which cannot, barring cases of urgent necessity, be validly conferred by heretical and schismatic priests;—not on account of their lack of ortho doxy, but because they have no ecclesiastical juris diction.

Harry had been spraying only a few seconds when a fully grown doxy came soaring out of a fold in the material, shiny beetlelike wings whirring, tiny needle-sharp teeth bared, its fairylike body covered with thick black hair and its four tiny fists clenched with fury.

Of course the trouble was that the only way to get something out of your mind is to get something else in it.

Roger was nothing like this. You forsook your family and your life for him, and even he did not give you such pleasure. But Roger had been her husband, even if only for a short time. Demon was… Demon was her master. She was his plaything, his bartered doxy.

M-m-master, when I was on the Quasar I had a paracoita, a doll, you see, a genicon, so beautiful with her great pupils as dark as wells, her i-irises purple like asters or pansies blooming in summer, Master, whole beds of them, I thought, had b-been gathered to make those eyes, that flesh that always felt sun-warmed. Wh-wh-where is she now, my own scopolagna, my poppet? Let h-h-hooks be buried in the hands that took her! Crush them, Master, beneath stones. Where has she gone from the lemon-wood box I made for her, where she never slept at all, for she lay with me all night, not in the box, the lemon-wood box where she waited all day, watch-and-watch, Master, smiling when I laid her in so she might smile when I drew her out. How soft her hands were, her little hands. Like d-d-doves. She might have flown with them about the cabin had she not chosen instead to lie with me. W-w-wind their guts about your w-windlass, stuff their eyes into their mouths. Unman them, shave them clean below so their doxies may not know them, their lemans may rebuke them, leave them to the brazen laughter of the brazen mouths of st-st-strumpets. Work your will upon those guilty. Where was their mercy on the innocent? When did they tremble, when weep? What kind of men could do as they have done—thieves, false friends, betrayers, bad shipmates, no shipmates, murderers and kidnappers. W-without you, where are their nightmares, where are their restitutions, so long promised? Where are their chains, fetters, manacles, and cangues? Where are their abacinations, that shall leave them blind? Where are the defenestrations that shall break their bones, where is the estrapade that shall grind their joints? Where is she, the beloved whom I lost?

When historians look back at that era, they sometimes describe those views as Orthodox, but that term is slanted. Literally, it means “right teaching,” and, of course, everyone believes that his or her particular views are correct. The main reason we call these opinions orthodox is that they were held by the Roman Church and the papacy, and over time, that church survived the political disasters that overwhelmed other once-great centers like Antioch and Alexandria. In the great debates over Christ’s nature, anti-Chalcedonians also called themselves Orthodox, and if matters had worked out differently, perhaps that faction would have won out. At least in their own minds, everyone is always “orthodox.” English bishop William Warburton explained the difference frankly: orthodoxy is my doxy; heterodoxy is another man’s doxy.

Cramer said a word, loud, which I omit because I suspect that some of the readers of these reports are people like retired schoolteachers and den mothers.

If she got the fifty grand and picked a college that wasn't too far away, I might drop in after she had been there a while to see what effect she was having. It was a cinch that she would have more effect on it than it would have on her.

He is summoned and asked to swear upon the only book the judge will allow in "his court." PaPa LaBas won't dare touch the accursed thing. He demands the right to his own idols and books. It reminds PaPa LaBas of the familiar epigram: "Orthodoxy is my Doxy, Heterodoxy is the other fellow's Doxy.

He had moved closer to the fire and was turning his laced sleeves back when he saw her. Her red hair was a blaze across the white ermine lap throw in which she was wrapped. She was sound asleep, lying on the settee, and he could see the pinched white misery of her face, the paleness of her lips, the faint spattering of freckles against her skin. He wondered if he could redden those lips. Would she pay the logical price for rescue? She was in his house, in his power, and if she were even the slightest bit knowledgeable about the way the world worked, she'd know what was expected of her. She was probably lying naked beneath that soft white fur, expecting him. A sudden rush of desire washed over him, and he examined it, surprised. It had been a very long time since the thought of a soft, sweet body had aroused his interest, not to mention another, more demanding part of him. But Emma Brown, with her murderous ways, her soft, shy mouth, and her astonishing bravery, had done just that. He moved to stand over her. He considered unfastening his breeches and taking her there on the sofa. After all, she must be a doxy, despite that innocence. No one could look as she did, find herself in the situations she did untouched, and remain untouched. He reached out a hand, tugging the fur down, hoping to see exposed skin. Instead he saw that miserable gray serge that he'd wanted to rip off her when he'd unfastened it earlier. She wasn't made for gray serge. She was made for silks and satins and furs. And the pristine whiteness of bed linen and smooth skin. "What are you doing?" His damnable guest, Nathaniel, appeared in the doorway, his brown hair ruffled from sleep, a glowering expression on his face. "Admiring Miss Brown," Killoran said lazily, turning his gaze back to the sleeping woman.

Doxie had brown hair, sleepwalking mannerisms, and looked about thirteen years old.