Foyer Quotes

I have a high pain threshold. In fact, it's more of a large and tastfully decorated foyer than a threshold. But I do get easily bored

Oh, and Cammie," At the sounds of his voice, I spun around, expecting to hear him crack a joke or call me Gallagher Girl. The last thing I expected was to feel his arms sliding arounds me, to sense the whole world turning upside down as Zach dipped me in the middle of the foyer and pressed his lips to mine. Then he smiled that smile I'd come to know. "I always finish what I start.

I stared at the nose I'd seen bleeding only hours before, the violet eyes that had been so filled with pain. "Why?" I asked. He knew what I meant, and shrugged. "Because when the legends get written, I didn't want to be remembered for standing on the sidelines. I want my future offspring to know that I was there, and that I fought against her at the end, even if I couldn't do anything useful." I blinked, this time not at the brightness of the sun. "Because," he went on, his eyes locked with mine, "I didn't want you to fight alone. Or die alone." And for a moment, I remembered that faerie who had died in our foyer, and how I'd told Tamlin the same thing. "Thank you," I said, my throat tight. Rhys flashed a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. " I doubt you'll be saying that when I take you to the Night Court.

His mouth captured hers, trying to show her with his kiss what he was still learning to express in words. He loved her. He worshipped her. He'd walk across fire for her. He— —still had the audience of her three brothers. Slowly breaking the kiss, he turned his face to the side. Anthony, Benedict, and Colin were still standing in the foyer. Anthony was studying the ceiling, Benedict was pretending to inspect his fingernails, and Colin was staring quite shamelessly.

If you ever put a student at this school in danger again-' 'Oh, I thought you Gallagher Girls were immune to danger.' Despite the hundred girls the filled the foyer, no one moved or gasped or tried to defend our honor. We stood silently, waiting for our headmistress to say, 'Oh, we are quite used to being underestimated, Agent Townsend. In fact, we welcome it.

Rachel?” came Ivy’s voice from her room. “Where’s my sword?” “In the foyer where you left it last week when the evangelists were canvassing the neighborhood

[Keenan] 'What am I going to do?' He sank to the floor. [Donia] 'Hope that some of us are kinder to you than you've been to us,' she whispered. Then, before she could soften again, she walked away and left the Summer King kneeling in her foyer.

He immediately started charming my mom until she was nothing but a gooey puddle in the middle of the foyer. He loved her new haircut.She got one?I guessed her hair did look different.Like she’d washed it or something.Daemon told her that the diamond earrings were beautiful.The rug below the steps was really nice.And that leftover scent of mystery dinner—because I still hadn’t figured out what she fed me—smelled divine.He admired nurses worldwide,and by that point,I couldn’t keep my eye rolls to a minimum. Daemon was ridiculous.

Because," he went on, his eyes locked with mine, "I didn't want you to fight alone. Or die alone." And for a moment, I remembered that faerie who had died in our foyer, and how I'd told Tamlin the same thing. "Thank you," I said, my throat tight.

There’s a man masturbating in your bathroom!” She grabbed an umbrella from the foyer and held it in front of her like a weapon, poised for battle. “Ashlyn! Did you hear what I said? Call the police!

Hodge says he's on his way and he hopes you can both manage to cling to your flickering sparks of life until he gets here," she told Simon and Jace. "Or something like that." "I wish he'd hurry," Jace said crossly. He was sitting up in bed against a pair of fluffed white pillows, still wearing his filthy clothes. "Why? Does it hurt?" Clary asked. "No. I have a high pain threshold. In fact, it's less of a threshold and more of a large and tastefully decorated foyer. But I do get easily bored." He squinted at her. "Do you remember back at the hotel when you promised that if we lived, you'd get dressed up in a nurse's outfit and give me a sponge bath?" "Actually, I think you misheard," Clary said. "It was Simon who promised you the sponge bath." Jace looked involuntarily over at Simon, who smiled at him widely. "As soon as I'm back on my feet, handsome.

Molly slapped the lid back down then pushed past Luce into the foyer stumbling over Shelby in her path. “Excuse you ” they said gruffly at the same time eyeing each other suspiciously. “Oh good. ” Gabbe leaned in to give Luce a hug. “Molly'’s made a friend.”

Qhuinn didn't know what the fuck was up. People fucking poofing it in and out of the fucking foyer, shit going south... until Autumn came the fuck back. If there had ever been a time to drop the f-bomb, tonight was it.

And at one point (cough) walking into a chicks knife (cough), he'd finally won. 'I'm king of the world, bitches. Come in here and bask in my glory.' His voice echoed through the foyer, expectant eager. -Strider

He ran a hand through his hair. "What I have to be tomorrow, who I have to become, is not....it's not something I want you to see. How I will treat you, treat others...." "The mask of the High Lord," I said quietly. "Yes." He took a seat on the bottom of the stairs. I remained in the center of the foyer as I asked carefully, "Why don't you want me to see that?" "Because you've only started looking at me like I'm not a monster, and I can't stomach the idea of anything you see tomorrow, being beneath that mountain that mountain, putting you back into that place where I found you.

What says more about who you are in Christ? How loudly you say AMEN in the service or how well you treat strangers in the foyer?

Persephone.” Henry’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, but even in the buzz of the foyer, it cut through me. He stood in the hallway, his arms covered in blood and his clothing torn, but like he’d done in the cave, he stared past me and focused on Persephone instead. It was as if none of the past few weeks had happened. As if none of the past thousand years had happened.

Were you raised in a barn? You don't just walk into someone's house." Ash laughed. "I have an open invitation to enter whenever I'm here." "Yeah, but what if he's naked or something?" Ash led him into the foyer. "I've known Kyrian for over two thousand years, and I can honesty say that I have never once caught him naked in his living room." The door closed behind them without Ash or Nick touching it- something that always unnerved Nick when Ash did it. "Besides, Rosa's still here. I know he's not walking around bare-assed with her on duty.

Aiden, his brains are on the foyer floor, I'm pretty sure that is a universally accepted indicator that a person is dead.

Kai appeared in the foyer below with a garland of ribbon and roses draped across his shoulders. Cinder smirked. “Having fun down there?” “Surprisingly, I sort of am. Turns out Thorne has a weird knack for this wedding thing. He says it’s because Cress has been poring over wedding feeds for the past few months, but … I think he’s secretly enjoying it.” Thorne’s voice came booming from the sitting room: “Don’t mock a guy for having good taste!

He assaulted the man with a psychic wave. "You are a cockroach." In his inebraited state, Cody had no resistance at all to a vampire mind control. He fell to the floor and scurried around the foyer on all fours. "I am a cockroach" he muttered in a squeaky voice. "Hmm, about time you figured that one out," Fidelia steped back as he brushed against her long skirt.

...we took the 10 machines we agreed were the most beguiling, and we put them on permanent exhibit in the foyer of this library underneath a sign whose words can surely be applied to this whole ruined planet nowadays: THE COMPLICATED FUTILITY OF IGNORANCE

Aw, man. I’d just shot an angel in the face.I made my way into the foyer and sat down on the stairs. I glanced up at the big old grandfather clock. It was going on ten. My folks would be home soon. “How was your evening, honey?” “Killed an angel.” “Well, isn’t that nice.” That wasn’t happening. Daddy never liked guns in the first place, Mother just pretended to. I was so grounded.

That Chippendale is a coffee table, Lieutenant, not a footstool." "How do you walk with that stick up your ass?" She left her feet where they were, propped comfortably on the table. "Does it hurt, or does it give you a nice little rush?" "Your dinner guests," he said, curling his lip, "have arrived." "Thank you, Summerset." Roarke got to his feet. "We'll have the hors d'oeuvres in here." He held out a hand to Eve. She waited, deliberately, until Summerset had stepped out again before swinging her feet to the floor. "In the interest of good fellowship," Roarke began as they started toward the foyer, "could you not mention the stick in Summerset's ass for the rest of the evening?" "Okay. If he rags on me I'll just pull it out and beat him over the head with it." "That should be entertaining.

We didn’t deny the obvious, but we didn’t entirely accept it either. I mean, we said hello to it each morning in the foyer. We patted its little head as it made a mess in the backyard, but we never nurtured it. Many nights the obvious showed up at our bedroom door, in its pajamas, unable to sleep, in need of a hug, and we just stared at it like an Armenian, or even worse— hid beneath the covers and pretended not to hear its tiny sobs.

It appeared to be from behind us. We were all turned and listening to Barry as he was in the midst of a rant and had all our attentions. The gun shot seemed to come from the area of the foyer.

So, Kate, Russell and I drove to the station and there was Paul, sitting in a chair in the foyer, looking like he always did: no better, no worse. Except that he wasn’t sitting in the chair. He hovered above it. You could have easily slid a thick book under him.

As I reach the grand foyer, I see Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard step through the front door. "You're here!" I cry. "I had planned on taking a couple more hours to rest up," Gaspard explains with a grin, "however, we received this almost indecipherable text message on our mobile telephone..." Jean-Baptiste holds up his cell phone like it's a piece of alien machinery. "And I quote, 'Dudes, it's going down now. Get your sorry asses over here stat.' With such an eloquent request, how could we resist?" he remarks drily. But there is a ghost of a smile at the edge of his lips, and I know that he and Gaspard wouldn't miss this for anything in the world.

I also knew that he was the kind of anile little runt who, in foyers and theatre bars the West End over, can be heard bleating into their gin and tonics, "I go to the theatre to be entertained.

Gauvin reprit : -Et la femme? qu'en faites-vous? Cimourdain répondit: -Ce qu'elle est. La servante de l'homme. -Oui. À une condition. -Laquelle? -C'est que l'homme sera le serviteur de la femme. -Y penses-tu? s'écria Cimourdain, l'homme serviteur! Jamais. L'homme est maître . Je n'admet qu'une royauté, celle du foyer. L'homme chez lui est roi. -Oui. À une condition. -Laquelle? -C'est que la femme y sera reine.

Don’t be absurd. They’d only do murder in the grand foyer, where they’d be sure of an audience.

I've wandered as far west as I can go. Sitting now on the sand, I watch the sun blur into an aftermath. Reds finally marrying blues. Soon night will enfold us all. But the light is still not gone, not yet, and by it I can dimly see here my own dark hallway, or maybe it was just a foyer and maybe not dark at all, not in fact brightly lit, an afternoon sun blazing through the lead panes, now detected amidst what amounts to a long column of my yesterdays, towards the end, though not the very end of course, where I had stood at the age of seven, gripping my mother's wrists, trying as hard as I could to keep her from going.

Our foyer has a funny smell that doesn't smell like anyplace else. I don't know what the hell it is. It isn't cauliflower and it isn't perfume—I don't know what the hell it is—but you always know you're home.

Echo." Too late. Brainless swept into the foyer.

Was there ever any doubt? And as the spotlights fade away, And you're escorted through the foyer, You will resume your callow ways, But I was meant for the stage.

The main reception foyer was almost empty but Ford nevertheless weaved his way through it.

She thought she'd get out clean, but the foyer monitor blinked on as she reached for her jacket. "Going somewhere, Lieutenant?" "Jesus, Roarke, why not just knock me over the head with a blunt instrument. Keeping tabs on me?" "As often as possible. Wear your coat if you're going out. That jacket isn't warm enough for this weather." "I'm just going into Central for a couple of hours." "Wear the coat," he repeated, "and the gloves in the pocket. I'm sending one of the four-wheels around." She opened her mouth, but he'd already vanished. "Nag, nag, nag," she muttered, then nearly jolted when he swam back on-screen. "I love you, too," he said easily, and she heard his chuckle as the image faded again.

It often felt like God had merely let me into a foyer where I could hear others playing my note in another room, with no way to get to the music. And that's really what I wanted to do. I wanted to play my note. I wanted to do the thing that made me feel alive.

On my way to the living room, where my family was gathered, I stopped to look at the photo in the foyer. As always, my eyes were drawn to my own face first, then those of my sisters, and finally my mother, looking so small between us. But I saw it differently now. When that picture was taken, we were all gathered around my mother, sheltering her. But that was just one day, one shot. In the time since, we had arranged and rearranged ourselves so many times. We’d all gathered around Whitney, even when she didn’t want us to, and Kirsten and I had gotten closer when she pushed us both away. We were still in flux, as had been clear at the table that night as I watched my mother and sisters come together again. Then, I’d been convinced I was on the outside, but really, I’d always been within arm’s reach. All I had to do was ask, and I, too, would be easily brought back, surrounded and immersed, finding myself safe, somewhere in between.

„We gave your way a try,” he said to Annabelle. „Now it's time for my way.” He flattened his palm on Brax's chest and pushed. Just a little push, but the man flew backward and slammed into the foyer wall. […] In a blink, Zacharel had a hand wrapped around Brax's throat and his body pinned against the wall, his legs dangling. […] A soft hand on his shoulder, a beseeching voice in his ear. „Zacharel. Let him down, please. Despite everything, I love him the way you love Hadrenial. I don't want to see him hurt.” Golden eyes widened, bulged, really, as Zacharel increaed the pressure. „Just a little longer. He disrespected you.

Leon strolled into the foyer, coming to a complete stop when he saw me holding the blade. “For the love of the gods, who gave that to you?” I pointed the sharp edge. “Seth.” Seth arched a brow at me. “Wow. Thanks.

When he heard light, rushing footfalls, he turned his head. Someone was racing along the second-floor balcony. Then laughter drifted down from above. Glorious feminine laughter. He leaned out the archway and glanced at the grand staircase. Bella appeared on the landing above, breathless, smiling, a black satin robe gathered in her hands. As she slowed at the head of the stairs, she looked over her shoulder, her thick dark hair swinging like a mane. The pounding that came next was heavy and distant, growing louder until it was like boulders hitting the ground. Obviously, it was what she was waiting for. She let out a laugh, yanked her robe up even higher, and started down the stairs, bare feet skirting the steps as if she were floating. At the bottom, she hit the mosaic floor of the foyer and wheeled around just as Zsadist appeared in second-story hallway. The Brother spotted her and went straight for the balcony, pegging his hands into the rail, swinging his legs up and pushing himself straight off into thin air. He flew outward, body in a perfect swan dive--except he wasn't over water, he was two floors up over hard stone. John's cry for help came out as a mute, sustained rush of air-- Which was cut off as Zsadist dematerialized at the height of the dive. He took form twenty feet in front of Bella, who watched the show with glowing happiness. Meanwhile, John's heart pounded from shock...then pumped fast for a different reason. Bella smiled up at her mate, her breath still hard, her hands still gripping the robe, her eyes heavy with invitation. And Zsadist came forward to answer her call, seeming to get even bigger as he stalked over to her. The Brother's bonding scent filled the foyer, just as his low, lionlike growl did. The male was all animal at the moment....a very sexual animal. "You like to be chased, nalla, " Z said in a voice so deep it distorted. Bella's smile got even wider as she backed up into a corner. "Maybe." "So run some more, why don't you." The words were dark and even John caught the erotic threat in them. Bella took off, darting around her mate, going for the billiards room. Z tracked her like prey, pivoting around, his eyes leveled on the female's streaming hair and graceful body. As his lips peeled off his fangs, the white canines elongated, protruding from his mouth. And they weren't the only response he had to his shellan. At his hips, pressing into the front of his leathers, was an erection the size of a tree trunk. Z shot John a quick glance and then went back to his hunt, disappearing into the room, the pumping growl getting louder. From out of the open doors, there was a delighted squeal, a scramble, a female's gasp, and then....nothing. He'd caught her. ......When Zsadist came out a moment later, he had Bella in his arms, her dark hair trailing down his shoulder as she lounged in the strength that held her. Her eyes locked on Z's face while he looked where he was going, her hand stroking his chest, her lips curved in a private smile. There was a bite mark on her neck, one that had very definitely not been there before, and Bella's satisfaction as she stared at the hunger in her hellren's face was utterly compelling. John knew instinctively that Zsadist was going to finish two things upstairs: the mating and the feeding. The Brother was going to be at her throat and in between her legs. Probably at the same time. God, John wanted that kind of connection.

Every walk carves out a new city. And each of these tiny cities has its main square, a downtown area all its own, its own memorial statue, its own landmarks, laundromats, bus terminal—in short, its own focal point (from the Latin word focus, meaning fireplace, hearth, foyer, home), warm spot, sweet spot, soft spot, hot spot.

She'd barely stepped in, taken that first breath of cool, clean air, when Summerset, Roarke's majordomo, appeared in the foyer like an unwelcome vision. "Yes, I missed the dinner," she said before he could open his mouth. "Yes, I'm a miserable failure as a wife and a poor example of a human being. I have no class, no courtesy, and no sense of decorum. I should be dragged naked into the streets and stoned for my sins." Summerset raised one steel gray eyebrow. "Well, that seems to cover it." "Good, saves time." She started up the stairs. "Is he back?" "Just." A little annoyed she'd given him no opportunity to criticize, he frowned after her. He'd have to be quicker next time.

Familles, je vous hais! foyers clos; portes refermées; possessions jalouses du bonheur.

Maybe the key to acclaim is simply to live long enough. But then, maybe acclaim is the foyer to death.

Masks! I see them everywhere. That dreadful vision of the other night - the deserted town with its masked corpses in every doorway; that nightmare product of morphine and ether - has taken up residence within me. I see masks in the street, I see them on stage in the theatre, I find yet more of them in the boxes. They are on the balcony and in the orchestra-pit. Everywhere I go I am surrounded by masks. The attendants to whom I give my overcoat are masked; masks crowd around me in the foyer as everyone leaves, and the coachman who drives me home has the same cardboard grimace fixed upon his face! It is truly too much to bear: to feel that one is alone and at the mercy of all those enigmatic and deceptive faces, alone amid all the mocking laughs and the threats embodied in those masks. I have tried to persuade myself that I am dreaming, and that I am the victim of a hallucination, but all the powdered and painted faces of women, all the rouged lips and kohl-blackened eyelids... all of that has created around me an atmosphere of trance and mortal agony. Cosmetics: there is the root cause of my illness! But I am happy, now, when there are only masks! Sometimes, I detect the cadavers beneath, and remember that beneath the masks there is a host of spectres.

Cauldron save me," she began whispering, her voice lovely and even-like music. "Mother hold me," she went on, reciting a prayer similar to one I'd heard once before, when Tamlin eased the passing of that lesser faerie who'd died in the foyer. Another of Amarantha's victims. "Guide me to you." I was unable to raise my dagger, unable to take the step that would close the distance between us. "Let me pass through the gates; let me smell that immortal land of milk and honey." Silent tears slide down my face and neck, where they dampened the filthy collar of my tunic. As she spoke, I knew I would be forever barred from that immortal land. I knew that whatever Mother she meant would never embrace me. In saving Tamlin, I was to damn myself. I couldn't do this-couldn't lift that dagger again. "Let me fear no evil," she breathed, staring at me-into me, into the soul that was cleaving itself apart."Let me feel no pain." A sob broke from my lips. "I'm sorry," I moaned. "Let me enter eternity," She breathed. I wept as I understood. >i/i< she was saying. >ii/< Her bronze eyes were steady, if not sorrowful. Infinitely, infinitely worse than the pleading of the dead faerie beside her. I couldn't do it. But she held my gaze-held my gaze and nodded.

What was awesome?” Lady Sarah Von Titebottum, Prince Henry’s fiancée, asks as she walks into the foyer, up to Henry’s side. Henry puts his arm around her shoulders and kisses her quickly. “I was just showing Ellie the best ride in the palace.” “You should try it, Sarah,” Ellie says. “No.” Henry frowns, petting Sarah’s long, dark hair possessively. “No, she can’t try it. Absolutely not.” Sarah peers up at him through her black-rimmed, round glasses. “Why can’t I?” “You could break your bloody n—” He stops mid-sentence, understanding blooming. He snaps his fingers and points at Nicholas, then to his own head. “Ohhh . . . I get it now. You were right.” “I always am,” Nicholas replies.

Shut the front door!” Jenna exclaimed. Andrew disappeared into the foyer, and when he returned, his eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. “The door is shut?

Are you going to come inside or just stand out there gawking all night?” she asked with a smile. He chuckled and stepped into the foyer. “Can’t I do both?

The sonic world of the foyer and vestibule comes at him distorted and from a distance, as if someone’s moving furniture underwater.

Trump, the fattest of the three Pekingese, waddled into the foyer.

I walk out into the foyer. It’s caked in sunshine.

That’s when I noticed the damage on the door. Just a little scuffing at the edge. Right about where you’d put a crowbar if you wanted to break in. I winced. “Aww, come on…” I pushed open the door and peeked into the foyer. No sign of Irina or Trond. A decorative vase lay on the ground next to its usual display pedestal. A splash of bright-red blood on the wall— “Nope!” I said. I spun on my heel and stormed back into the hallway. “Nope, nope, nope!

I briefly considered shooting her just to stop the annoyance. But we were in the very public foyer of a five-star hotel, and the cleanup cost alone would make it less than worth it.

Cauldron save me," she began whispering, her voice lovely and even-like music. "Mother hold me," she went on, reciting a prayer similar to one I'd heard once before, when Tamlin eased the passing of that lesser faerie who'd died in the foyer. Another of Amarantha's victims. "Guide me to you." I was unable to raise my dagger, unable to take the step that would close the distance between us. "Let me pass through the gates; let me smell that immortal land of milk and honey." Silent tears slide down my face and neck, where they dampened the filthy collar of my tunic. As she spoke, I knew I would be forever barred from that immortal land. I knew that whatever Mother she meant would never embrace me. In saving Tamlin, I was to damn myself. I couldn't do this-couldn't lift that dagger again. "Let me fear no evil," she breathed, staring at me-into me, into the soul that was cleaving itself apart."Let me feel no pain." A sob broke from my lips. "I'm sorry," I moaned. "Let me enter eternity," She breathed. I wept as I understood. Kill me now, she was saying. Do it fast. Don't make it hurt. Kill me now. Her bronze eyes were steady, if not sorrowful. Infinitely, infinitely worse than the pleading of the dead faerie beside her. I couldn't do it. But she held my gaze-held my gaze and nodded. As I lifted the ash dagger, something inside me fractured so completely that there would be no hope of ever repairing it. No matter how many years passed, no matter how many times I might try to paint her face.” As I lifted the ash dagger, something inside me fractured so completely that there would be no hope of ever repairing it. No matter how many years passed, no matter how many times I might try to paint her face. More faeries wailed now-her kinsmen and friends. The dagger was a weight in my hand-my hand, shining and coated with the blood of the first faerie. It would be more honorable to refuse-to die, rather than murder innocents. But... but... "Let me enter eternity," she repeated, lifting her chin. "Fear no evil," she whispered-just for me. "Feel no pain." I gripped her delicate, bony shoulder and drove the dagger into her heart. She gasped, and blood spilled onto the ground like a splattering of rain. Her eyes were closed when I looked at her face again. She slumped to the floor and didn't move. I went somewhere far, far away from myself.

It ends. Good things always end terribly, at dawn in his arms wrapped, silently or— late in the night in unchartered apartments or hotel foyers, over a fight. It ends. Good things always end terribly.

Evacuation? Why?” Sier shouted over the klaxon “Gandros ordered it after Ruiden cleaved Exador in twain!” Zilquar shouted back. “Well, that seems a bit rude,” Sier said with a shocked expression on his face. “Exador thought so too, and now the two are dueling it out in the Grand Foyer,” Hortwell yelled.

WHEN I LOOK UP again, the paintings in my foyer, my Madonnas, bring a mirthless smile to my lips. The idealization of motherhood. All of them gazing at their infants, or staring inauspiciously down at me.

The headwaiter said something to her in the foyer, and she told him, “I’m looking for somebody,” and went on to the doorway. She stood in the doorway, looking over the people at the tables in the room where a piano played.

I hold up my hands, posing and teasing, “So do I look cute?” He steps in and walks up to me, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “That’s not the word I would use,” he whispers. “You both look great,” my mom chimes in. “You don’t match,” my sister retorts, and I look up to see her entering the foyer. She’s dressed in her skimpy sleep shorts, probably for Misha’s benefit, and I fantasize about putting vinegar in her mouthwash. Match? Like his tie and my dress? But Misha looks at her and places his hand on his heart, feigning sincerity. “We match in here.” I snort, breaking into quiet laughter. My sister rolls her eyes, and my mom shakes her head, smiling. “Alright, let’s go,” I say.

Entering the foyer, Royale already decided that he would thank Shake once more for being by his side at Keena’s recital. But she stunned him by eagerly waiting for him just like old times—on her knees wearing only a collar and a leash.

Later, William Stoner could not remember how he learned these things, that first afternoon and early evening at Josiah Claremont’s house; for the time of his meeting was blurred and formal, like the figured tapestry on the stair wall off the foyer.

The alley is a pitch for about twenty women leaning in doorways, chain-smoking. In their shiny open raincoats, short skirts, cheap boots, and high-heeled shoes they watch the street with hooded eyes, like spies in a B movie. Some are young and pretty, and some are older, and some of them are very old, with facial expressions ranging from sullen to wry. Most of the commerce is centred on the slightly older women, as if the majority of the clients prefer experience and worldliness. The younger, prettier girls seem to do the least business, apparent innocence being only a minority preference, much as it is for the aging crones in the alley who seem as if they’ve been standing there for a thousand years. In the dingy foyer of the hotel is an old poster from La Comédie Française, sadly peeling from the all behind the desk. Cyrano de Bergerac, it proclaims, a play by Edmond Rostand. I will stand for a few moments to take in its fading gaiety. It is a laughing portrait of a man with an enormous nose and a plumed hat. He is a tragic clown whose misfortune is his honour. He is a man entrusted with a secret; an eloquent and dazzling wit who, having successfully wooed a beautiful woman on behalf of a friend cannot reveal himself as the true author when his friend dies. He is a man who loves but is not loved, and the woman he loves but cannot reach is called Roxanne. That night I will go to my room and write a song about a girl. I will call her Roxanne. I will conjure her unpaid from the street below the hotel and cloak her in the romance and the sadness of Rostand’s play, and her creation will change my life.

Despite all her efforts to not be one of those historical romance heroines, walking into the marble foyer and seeing the slick hardwood floors beyond, the glittering chandeliers and sconces, she felt like one. She felt small and alone. And like maybe her dad lost her in a poker game.

I am not glowy.” Laurel simply turned Parker by the shoulders to the big foyer mirror. “You were saying?” Maybe color did glow in her cheeks, and maybe her eyes were a little dazzled, but . . . “That’s irritation.” “I won’t say ‘liar, liar,’ but, Parks, under that skirt, your pants are on fire.

The majority of the employees here are civilians," explained my Alderman guide/protector/companion/would-be-executioner as we strode without a word to the security guards through the foyer towards the lifts. "They conduct themselves within perfectly standard financial services and regulations. There is one specialist suboperational department catering to the financing of more...unusual extra-capital ventures, and the executive assets who operate it have to undergo a rigorous level of training, psyche evaluation, personality assessment, and team operational analyses." We stared at him, and said, "We barely understood the little words." "No," he replied, "I didn't think you would.

Vous avez simplement cherché à ne pas faire comme les autres femmes, et ma foi vous n'avez pas mal réussi. Comme je vous l'ai déjà dit, la société ne veut pas qu'on se singularise. C'est le seul péché qu'elle ne pardonne pas. Maudit soit celui qui est différent des autres. Et puis, Scarlett, le seul fait que votre scierie marche bien est une injure à tout homme dont les affaires périclitent. Rappelez-vous qu'une femme bien élevée doit rester à son foyer et ignorer ce qui se passe dans le monde brutal des gens laborieux.

To everyone in the foyer reading the lists, or on the sidewalks waving signs and photos of their families who’d disappeared, I said over and over again: “Everyone is dead.” If they insisted, showing me family photos, I’d calmly say: “Were there any children? Not a single child will come back.” I didn’t mince my words, I didn’t try to spare their feelings, I was used to death. I’d become as hard-hearted as the deportees who saw us arrive at Birkenau without saying a single comforting word. Surviving makes other people’s tears unbearable. You might drown in them.

How are you holding up?' Stephen had asked in the parking lot, and it had come as a relief. Because even if you don't know the answer, Nora thinks, leaving the foyer, it is nice to be asked.

To me, and I passed this on to my students, the restored devices demonstrated not only how quickly anything on Earth runs down without steady infusions of energy. They reminded us, too, of the craftsmanship no longer practiced in the town below. Nobody down there in our time could make things that cunning and beautiful. Yes, and we took the 10 machines we agreed were the most beguiling, and we put them on permanent exhibit in the foyer of this library underneath a sign whose words can surely be applied to this whole ruined planet nowadays. THE COMPLICATED FUTILITY OF IGNORANCE

Haute couture and getting hauter. Fire inches down the foyer wallpaper. Me, for added set dressing I started the fire. Special effects can go a long way to heighten a mood, and it's not as if this is a real house. What's burning down is a re-creation of a period revival house patterned after a copy of a copy of a copy of a mock-Tudor big manor house. It's a hundred generations removed from anything original, but the truth is aren't we all?

My blood stopped at the voice that drawled from behind me. At the scent that hit me, awoke me. My friends began smiling. I turned. Rhysand leaned against the archway into the sitting room, arms crossed, wings nowhere to be seen, dressed in his usual immaculate black jacket and pants. And as those violet eyes met mine, as that familiar half smile faded... My face crumpled. A small, broken noise cracked from me. Rhys was instantly moving, but my legs had already given out. The foyer carpet cushioned the impact as I sank to my knees. I covered my face with my hands while the past month crashed into me. Rhys knelt before me, knee to knee. Gently, he pulled my hands away from my face. Gently, he took my cheeks in his hands and brushed away my tears. I didn't care that we had an audience as I lifted my head and beheld the joy and concern and love shining in those remarkable eyes. Neither did Rhys as he murmured, 'My love,' and kissed me. I'd no sooner slid my hands into his hair than he scooped me into his arms and stood in one smooth movement. I pulled my mouth from his, glancing toward a pallid Lucien, but Rhysand said to our companions without so much as looking at them, 'Go find somewhere else to be for a while.' He didn't wait to see if they obeyed. Rhys winnowed us up the stairs, and launched into a steady, swift walk down the hallway.

Thankfully, Gabriel was five minutes late, and by the time he knocked on the door I’d just finished putting on lipstick and slipping my feet into sandals. I opened the door. “I hope I didn’t keep you wait . . .” His voice drifted off as he quite blatantly checked me out. “What?” I asked, hand on my hip. He flashed me a devilish grin. “The little pink dress. You look cute.” What I found frumpy, he found cute. Wonder what his response would have been to the tight number. My eyes gave him a discreet once-over. He wore jeans and a Yankees T-shirt. It wasn’t exactly going to win over the locals, but I had to admit, he filled the shirt out ridiculously well. His short black hair was damp, like he’d just taken a shower. I felt my face behind to flush, so I turned away. “Come on in.” He stopped and surveyed the foyer. “I was only here for a minute when we came to get Joni. I didn’t get a chance to check the place out.” He paused. “It’s not what I was expecting.” “What were you expecting? Voodoo dolls hung from the ceiling?” He smirked. “Maybe just a little one of me.” “That’s hidden under my bed.

Kristin comes down the stairs, and the pressure on my chest snaps. I take a moment to turn away, inhaling deeply, blinking away tears. She sets the plate on a table behind the couch, and half tiptoes back up the stairs. Thank god. I don’t think I could have handled maternal attention right this second. My body feels like it’s on a hair trigger. I need to get it together. This is why people avoid me. Someone asks if I want a drink and I have a panic attack. “You’re okay.” Declan is beside me, and his voice is low and soft, the way it was in the foyer. He’s so hard all the time, and that softness takes me by surprise. I blink up at him. “You’re okay,” he says again. I like that, how he’s so sure. Not Are you okay? No question about it. You’re okay. He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “But if you’re going to lose it, this is a pretty safe place to fall apart.” He takes two cookies from the plate, then holds one out to me. “Here. Eat your feelings.” I’m about to turn him down, but then I look at the cookie. I was expecting something basic, like sugar or chocolate chip. This looks like a miniature pie, and sugar glistens across the top. “What . . . is that?” “Pecan pie cookies,” says Rev. He’s taken about five of them, and I think he might have shoved two in his mouth at once. “I could live on them for days.” I take the one Declan offered and nibble a bit from the side. It is awesome. I peer up at him sideways. “How did you know?” He hesitates, but he doesn’t ask me what I mean. “I know the signs.” “I’m going to get some sodas,” Rev says slowly, deliberately. “I’m going to bring you one. Blink once if that’s okay.” I smile, but it feels watery around the edges. He’s teasing me, but it’s gentle teasing. Friendly. I blink once. This is okay. I’m okay. Declan was right. “Take it out on the punching bag,” calls Rev. “That’s what I do.” My eyes go wide. “Really?” “Do whatever you want,” says Declan. “As soon as we do anything meaningful, the baby will wake up.” Rev returns with three sodas. “We’re doing something meaningful right now.” “We are?” I say. He meets my eyes. “Every moment is meaningful.” The words could be cheesy—should be cheesy, in fact—but he says them with enough weight that I know he means them. I think of The Dark and all our talk of paths and loss and guilt. Declan sighs and pops the cap on his soda. “This is where Rev starts to freak people out.” “No,” I say, feeling like this afternoon could not be more surreal. Something about Rev’s statement steals some of my earlier guilt, to think that being here could carry as much weight as paying respects to my mother. I wish I knew how to tell whether this is a path I’m supposed to be on. “No, I like it. Can I really punch the bag?” Rev shrugs and takes a sip of his soda. “It’s either that or we can break out the Play-Doh

Azriel arrived first, no shadows to be seen, my sister a pale, golden mass in his arms. He, too, wore his Illyrian armour, Elain's golden-brown hair snagging in some of the black scales across his chest and shoulders. He set her down gently on the foyer carpet, having carried her in through the front door. Elain peered up at his patient, solemn face. Azriel smiled faintly. 'Would you like me to show you the garden?' She seemed so small before him, so fragile compared to the scales of his fighting leathers, the breadth of his shoulders. The wings peeking over them. But Elain did not balk from him, did not shy away as she nodded- just once. Azriel, graceful as any courtier, offered her an arm. I couldn't tell if she was looking at his blue Siphons or at his scarred skin beneath as she breathed, 'Beautiful.' Colour bloomed high on Azriel's golden-brown cheeks, but he inclined his head in thanks and led my sister toward the back doors into the garden, sunlight bathing them.

We have raging fires in our souls with no one to stop by and warm themselves, though some may notice a wisp of smoke in the chimney as they pass. What can we do with this? Shall we tend this inner fire, “salt among ourselves” so to speak, and wait patiently—with such impatience—for that hour when those who feel inclined visit, sit, perhaps even stay? We who believe in God wait for that hour, trusting it will come sooner or later. — Vincent van Gogh, June 1880 Read more __________ “Tel a un grand foyer dans son âme,” Vincent to Theo van Gogh, Cuesmes, 22-24 June 1880, Lettres de Vincent Van Gogh à son frère Théo (Grasset, 1914). Translation © 2020 David Bannon.

And then the Turkish gendarmes and zaptieh went from Armenian house to Armenian house confiscating weapons or anything they thought might be one. If possible, the priest would come to warn each family that the gendarmes or the zaptieh were coming so they could prepare. The zaptieh knocked on Armenian doors any time of day or night, and they preferred coming at night. They came to the Kazanjians, and the Arslanians, and the Meugerditchians, and to the Hovsepians and Haroutiunians and to the Shekerlemedjians. And finally, they came to our house in the evening after dinner. Three men in dark brown uniforms walked into the foyer and through the courtyard and said to my mother that if she did not hand over every gun in the house, we would be killed.

There was a little optometrist shop on south Broadway tucked in between a pizza joint and what amounted to a head shop where you could buy glow-in-the-dark posters, bongs, and whatever else the hippies began marketing after they went commercial in the '70s... I had never visited the optometrist shop. The entrance had a 1930s look that I liked—art deco molded-tin awning over the doorway, and Bakelite tiles on the foyer walls. It looked like the kind of business that would be owned by an elderly optometrist who had serviced families for generations and personally ground lenses in his back room. I liked the look of the shop, but I drove right past it on my way to Sight City!!! where you could buy Two Pair for the Price of One!!! according to the billboards plastered all over Denver blocking every decent view of the Rocky Mountains.

Mary.” Turning at the soft sound of her name, she glanced behind herself. Then frowned. “Lassiter?” “I’m over here.” “Where?” She looked all around. “Why is your voice echoing?” “Chimney.” “What?” “I’m stuck in the fucking chimney.” She raced over to the fireplace and got on her hands and knees. Looking up into the dark flue, she shook her head. “Lass? What the hell are you doing up there?” His voice emanated from somewhere above her. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?” “What are you—” An arm came down. A very sooty arm that was encased in a red sleeve that had white trim. Or what had been white trim and which was now smudged with ash. “You’re stuck!” she exclaimed. “And thank God no one lit this fire!” “You’re telling me,” he muttered in his disembodied voice. “I had to blow out Fritz’s match like a hundred times before he gave up. Fuck, that sounds dirty. Anyway, just remind me never to try to be Santa for your kid, okay? I’m not doing this again, even for her.” Mary stretched a little farther in, but the logs on the hearth stopped her. “Lassiter. Why can’t you free yourself by dematerializing—” “I’m impaled on a hook that’s iron. I can’t go ghost. And will you just take this?” “What?” “This.” He turned his hand toward her and there was…a box…in it? A small navy blue box. “Open it. And before you ask, I already cleared it with your pinheaded hellren. He’s not jel or anything.” Mary sat back and shook her head. “I’m more worried about you—” “Justopenthefuckingthingalready.” Taking off the top, she found a slightly smaller box inside. That was velvet. “What is this?” As she lifted the lid, she…gasped. It was a pair of diamond earrings. A pair of perfectly matched, sparkly, diamond… “A mother’s tears,” Lassiter’s slightly echo-y voice said softly. “So hard, so beautiful. I told you everything was going to be all right. And those are to remind you of how strong you are, how strong your love for your daughter is…how, even in the worst of times, things have a way of working out as they should.” Blinking away tears, she thought of her crying in the foyer in front of the angel, crying because all had been lost. “They’re just beautiful,” she said hoarsely. -Lassiter & Mary

... je t'emmènerais dans une contrée resplendissante et prospère, au foyer d'une famille aristocratique des lettrés, fastueux domaine où abondent les fleurs et les saules, terroir de la douceur, de richesse et d'honneurs, pour t'installer dans la joie et en toute sécurité. Cao Xueqin, "Le Rêve dans le pavillon rouge", trad, fr. par Li Tche-Houa, J. Alézaïs, révision par A. D'Hormon, Paris, Gallimard, "Bibliothèque de la Pléiade", 1981, vol. 1, p. 8.

When I got back to my office Tween was there. She rose from the foyer couch as I wheezed in off the ramp. I took one look at her and said, “Come inside.” She followed me through the inner door. I waved my hand over the infra-red plate and it closed. Then I put out my arms. She bleated like a new-born lamb and flew to me. Her tears were scalding, and I don’t think human muscles are built for the wrenching those agonized sobs gave her. People should cry more. They ought to learn how to do it easily, like laughing or sweating. Crying piles up. In people like Tween, who do nothing if they can’t smile and make a habit-pattern of it, it really piles up. With a reservoir like that, and no developed outlet, things get torn when the pressure builds too high. I just held her tight so she wouldn’t explode. The only thing I said to her was “sh-h-h” once when she tried to talk while she wept. One thing at a time.

He looked at me, and I saw the knowledge in his eyes. The horror. “I didn’t know, Gideon. I swear to God, I didn’t know.” My heart jerked in my chest, then began to pound. My mouth went dry. “I, uh, went to see Terrence Lucas.” Chris’s voice grew hoarse. “ Barged into his office. He denied it, the lying son of a bitch, but I could see it on his face.” The brandy sloshed in my glass. I set it down carefully, feeling the floor shift under my feet. Eva had confronted Lucas, but Chris..? “I decked him, knocked him out could, but Good … I wanted to take one of those awards on his shelves and bash his head in.” “Stop.” The word broke from my throat like slivers of glass. “And the asshole who did … That asshole is dead. I can’t get to him. Goddamn it.” Chris dropped the tumbler onto the granite with a thud, but it was the sob that tore out of him that nearly shattered me. “Hell, Gideon. It was my job to protect you. And I failed.” “Stop!” I pushed off the counter, my hands clenching. “Don’t fucking look at me like that!” He trembled visibly, but didn’t back down. “I had to tell you –“ His wrinkled dress shirt was in my fist, his feet dangling above the floor. “Stop talking. Now!” Tears lipped down his face. “I love you like my own. Always have.” I shoved him away. Turned my back to him when he stumbled and hit the wall. I left, crossing the living room without seeing it. “I’m not expecting your forgiveness,” he called after me, tears clogging his words. “I don’t deserve it. But you need to hear that I would’ve ripped him apart with my bare hands if I’d known.” I rounded on him, feeling the sickness clawing up from my gut and burning my throat. “What the fuck do you want?” Chris pulled his shoulders back. He faced me with reddened eyes and wet cheeks, shaking but too stupid to run. “I want you to know that you’re not alone.” Alone. Yes. Far away from the pity and guilt and pain staring out at me through his tears. “Get out.” Nodding, he headed toward the foyer. I stood immobile, my chest heaving, my eyes burning. Words backed up in my throat, violence pounded in the painful clench of my fists. He stopped before he left the room, facing me. “I’m glad you told Eva.” “Don’t talk about her.” I couldn’t bear to even think of her. Not now, when I was so close to losing it. He left. The weight of the day crashed onto my shoulders, dropping me to my knees. I broke.

The last fire in the drawer was 1890. It was the year Edward painted Across the Delaware (acquired in 1961 by Jacqueline Kennedy and now hanging in the White House foyer), the year he married Diana (April), and the year he nearly made her a widow on their extended honeymoon (May) when he overestimated the water temperature at the cliffs in Brontallo, Switzerland, and had to be pulled, nearly unconscious and hyppthermic, from the water by a pair of passing Norwegian tourists in a rowboat.

I have become well acquainted with the dualism in the North American church. Once, after taking a trip to Iraq to protest the war, I went to Willow Creek and gave a talk titled “The Scandal of Grace.” Afterward, they explained to me that the pulpits are not for political messages. I thought about what would have happened if Reverend King hadn’t allowed the gospel to get political. My heart sank as I walked into the foyer and noticed something I had never seen before: the American flag standing prominently in front of the auditorium. And never before was I so heartbroken that the cross was missing. For the flag and the cross are both spiritual. And they are both political. It is a dangerous day when we can take the cross out of the church more easily than the flag. No wonder it is hard for seekers to find God nowadays. It’s difficult to know where Christianity ends and America begins.1 Our money says, “In God We Trust.” God’s name is on America’s money, and America’s flag is on God’s altars.

A kiss with Lenore is a scenario in which Iskate with buttered soles over the moist rink of lower lip, sheltered from weathers by the wet warm overhang of upper, finally to crawl between lip and gum and pull the lip to me like a child’s blanket and stare over it with beady, unfriendly eyes out at the world external to Lenore, of which I no longer wish to be part. That I must in the final analysis remain part of the world that is external to and other from Lenore Beadsman is to me a source of profound grief. That others may dwell deep, deep within the ones they love, drink from the soft cup at the creamy lake at the center of the Object of Passion, while I am fated forever only to intuit the presence of deep recesses while I poke my nose, as it were, merely into the foyer of the Great House of Love, agitate briefly, and make a small mess onthe doormat, pisses me off to no small degree. But that Lenore finds such tiny frenzies, such conversations just inside the Screen Door of Union, to be not only pleasant and briefly diverting but somehow apparently right, fulfilling, significant, in some sense wonderful, quite simply and not at all surprisingly makes me feel the same way, enlarges my sense of it and me, sends me hurrying up the walk to that Screen Door in my best sportjacket and flower in lapel as excited as any schoolboy, time after time, brings me charging to the cave entrance in leopardskin shirt, avec club, bellowing for admittance and promising general kickings of ass if I am impeded in any way.

Even in the warm faelight of the foyer, the gown glittered and gleamed like a fresh-cut jewel. We had taken my gown from Starfall and refashioned it, adding sheer silk panels to the back shoulders, the glittering material like woven starlight as it flowed behind me in lieu of a veil or cape. If Rhysand was Night Triumphant, I was the star that only glowed thanks to his darkness, the light only visible because of him. I scowled up the stairs. That is, if he bothered to show up on time. My hair, Nuala had swept into an ornate, elegant arc across my head, and in front of it... I caught Cassian glancing at me for the third time in less than a minute and demanded, 'What?' His lips twitched at the corners. 'You just look so...' 'Here we go,' Mor muttered from where she picked at her red-tinted nails against the stair banister. Rings glinted at every knuckle, on every finger; stacks of bracelets tinkled against each other on either wrist. 'Official,' Cassian said with an incredulous look in her direction. He waved a Siphon-topped hand to me. 'Fancy.' 'Over five hundred years old,' Mor said, shaking her head sadly, 'a skilled warrior and general, famous throughout territories, and complementing ladies is still something he finds next to impossible. Remind me why we bring you on diplomatic meetings?' Azriel, wreathed in shadows by the front door, chuckled quietly. Cassian shot him a glare. 'I don't see you spouting poetry, brother.' Azriel crossed his arms, still smiling faintly. 'I don't need to resort to it.

You want to leave the moat, to go back to the room; you’re already turning and trying to find the door, covered with fake leather, in the steep wall of the moat, but the master succeeds in grabbing your hand and, looking straight in your eyes, says: Your assignment: describe the jaw of a crocodile, the tongue of a hummingbird, the steeple of the New Maiden Convent, a shoot of bird cherry, the bend of the Lethe, the tail of any village dog, a night of love, mirages over hot asphalt, the bright midday in Berezov, the face of a flibbertigibbet, the garden of hell, compare the termite colony to the forest anthill, the sad fate of leaves to the serenade of a Venetian gondolier, and transform a cicada into a butterfly, turn rain into hail, day into night, give us today our daily bread, make a sibilant out of a vowel, prevent the crash of the train whose engineer is asleep, repeat the thirteenth labor of Hercules, give a smoke to a passerby, explain youth and old age, sing a song about a bluebird bringing water in the morn, turn your face to the north, to the Novgorodian barbicans, and then describe how the doorman knows it is snowing outside, if he sits in the foyer all day, talks to the elevator operator, and does not look out the window because there is no window; yes, tell how exactly, and in addition, plant in your orchard a white rose of the winds, show it to the teacher Pavel and, if he likes it, give the white rose to the teacher Pavel, pin the flower to his cowboy shirt or to his dacha hat, bring joy to the man who departed to nowhere, make your old pedagogue—a joker, a clown, and a wind-chaser—happy.

Sunday morning dawned bright and cloudless. Ernest awoke early as always. He put on the red "Emporor's robe" and padded softly down the carpeted stairway. The early sunlight lay in pools on the living room floor. He had noticed that the guns were locked up in the basement. But the keys, as he well knew, were on the window ledge above the kitchen sink. He tiptoed down the basement stairs and unlocked the storage room. It smelled as dank as a grave. He chose a double-barreled Boss shotgun with a tight choke. He had used it for years of pigeon shooting. He took some shells from one of the boxes in the storage room, closed and locked the door, and climbed the basement stairs. If he saw the bright day outside, it did not deter him. He crossed the living room to the front foyer, a shrinelike entryway five by seven feet, with oak-paneled walls and a floor of linoleum tile. He had held for years to the maxim: "il faut (d'abord) durer". Now it had been succeeded by another: "il faut (apres tout) mourir". The idea, if not the phrase, filled all his mind. He slipped in two shells, lowered the gun butt carefully to the floor, leaned forward, pressed the twin barrels against his forehead just above the eyebrows, and tripped both triggers.

If there was any doubt about the authenticity of his fake ID, it would now be put to the test. As Sage waited for the Secret Service to do their due diligence, I wondered how much our mission to find Dad would be set back by Sage taking a quick detour to federal prison. “He’s clear,” the lead agent finally said. Great, we could go in. Sage politely insisted that Rayna and I enter before him. “Not sure that’s such a good idea,” I said, but he wouldn’t hear it. Rayna, Ben, and I shared a knowing smile. Then I shrugged and stepped over the threshold…immediately triggering the Piri alarm. I don’t know how she knew; she was all the way in the kitchen. But the minute I stepped into the foyer she raced in, arms waving in the air, a high-pitched scream keening from her lungs. “AIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!” “He made me do it, Piri,” I said, happily tossing Sage under the bus. “I tried to tell him-“ Piri strode right up to Sage, her head barely reaching his sternum, and jabbed her finger into his chest to emphasize each scolding word. “You never let a woman enter this house before a man! Very bad luck! And when the senator’s doing business! Jaj!” She pushed us back outside, closed the door, and spit three times on the porch (barely missing the shoes of one of the Secret Service agents), then turned her baleful eyes to Sage, asking him to do the same. “I don’t think I really need to spit on Clea’s porch,” Sage said uncomfortably, but Piri’s glare only grew more and more violent until he withered under its power…and spit three times. Piri smiled smugly and opened the door, gesturing for Sage to enter. Ben went next, bending to Piri’s ear to murmur, “If it’d been me, I would have gone in first.” “That’s because you’re a smart boy,” Piri said, kissing him on both cheeks. Once we were all in, Piri greeted us as if for the first time, with huge hugs and two-cheeked kisses. As she led us to the luncheon raging in the other room, Ben crowed to Sage, “You know, a real European scholar would be up on old-school superstitions.” Sage grimaced.

On a dit qu’une cité dont les membres auront une égale répartition de bien et d'éducation présentera aux regards de la Divinité un spectacle au-dessus du spectacle de la cité de nos pères. La folie du moment est d'arriver à l'unité des peuples et de ne faire qu’un seul homme de l'espèce entière, soit ; mais en acquérant des facultés générales, toute une série de sentiments privés ne périra-t-elle pas ? Adieu les douceurs du foyer ; adieu les charmes de la famille ; parmi tous ces êtres blancs, jaunes, noirs, réputés vos compatriotes, vous ne pourriez vous jeter au cou d’un frère. N’y avait-il rien dans la vie d’autrefois, rien dans cet espace borné que vous aperceviez de votre fenêtre encadrée de lierre ? Au-delà de votre horizon vous soupçonniez des pays inconnus dont vous parlait à peine l’oiseau du passage, seul voyageur que vous aviez vu à l’automne. C’était bonheur de songer que les collines qui vous environnaient ne disparaîtraient pas à vos yeux ; qu’elles renfermeraient vos amitiés et vos amours ; que le gémissement de la nuit autour de votre asile serait le seul bruit auquel vous vous endormiriez ; que jamais la solitude de votre âme ne serait troublée, que vous y rencontreriez toujours les pensées qui vous y attendent pour reprendre avec vous leur entretien familier. Vous saviez où vous étiez né, vous saviez où était votre tombe ; en pénétrant dans la forêt vous pouviez dire : Beaux arbres qui m’avez vu naître, Bientôt vous me verrez mourir

Comprenez-moi. Le misogyne ne méprise pas les femmes. Le misogyne n'aime pas la féminité. Les hommes se répartissent depuis toujours en deux grandes catégories. Les adorateurs des femmes, autrement dit les poètes, et les misogynes ou, pour mieux dire, les gynophobes. Les adorateurs ou poètes vénèrent les valeurs féminines traditionelles comme le sentiment, le foyer, la maternité, la fécondité, les éclairs sacrés de l'hysterie, et la voix divine de la nature en nous, tandis qu'aux misogynes ou gynophobes ces valeurs inspirent un léger effroi. Chez la femme, l'adorateur vénère la féminité, alors que le misogyne donne toujours la préférence à la femme sur la féminité. N'oubliez pas une chose: une femme ne peut être vraiment heureuse qu'avec un misogyne.

A kiss with Lenore is a scenario in which I skate with buttered soles over the moist rink of lower lip, sheltered from weathers by the wet warm overhang of upper, finally to crawl between lip and gum and pull the lip to me like a child’s blanket and stare over it with beady, unfriendly eyes out at the world external to Lenore, of which I no longer wish to be part. That I must in the final analysis remain part of the world that is external to and other from Lenore Beadsman is to me a source of profound grief. That others may dwell deep, deep within the ones they love, drink from the soft cup at the creamy lake at the center of the Object of Passion, while I am fated forever only to intuit the presence of deep recesses while I poke my nose, as it were, merely into the foyer of the Great House of Love, agitate briefly, and make a small mess on the doormat, pisses me off to no small degree. But that Lenore finds such tiny frenzies, such conversations just inside the Screen Door of Union, to be not only pleasant and briefly diverting but somehow apparently right, fulfilling, significant, in some sense wonderful, quite simply and not at all surprisingly makes me feel the same way, enlarges my sense of it and me, sends me hurrying up the walk to that Screen Door in my best sportjacket and flower in lapel as excited as any schoolboy, time after time, brings me charging to the cave entrance in leopardskin shirt, avec club, bellowing for admittance and promising general kickings of ass if I am impeded in any way.

They'd managed to make it through the room without waking the maid, and all the way to the top of the stairs before the next problem had arisen in the form of the women returning from the ball and entering the foyer below. In a panic, Daniel and Richard had rushed back along the upper hall, and then ducked into this room to wait for the way to be clear. "We'd best move while we have the chance," Richard said behind him. "Once they have Christiana in bed, the girls will no doubt seek their own rooms and this could be one of them." Daniel nodded and eased the door open to check the hall. When a quick glance in both directions showed it to be empty, he pulled the door wide and stepped out of the way for Richard to lead with his burden. He then started to follow, but had barely taken a step when Richard suddenly whirled back toward him. Caught by surprise, Daniel was slow to react. Before he could, Richard cursed, and suddenly thrust George's body on him. Pure instinct made Daniel grab at the blanket-encased corpse. He then found himself stumbling back under a push from Richard, a very stiff George caught to his chest in some sort of macabre dance as the door closed leaving him alone in the dark room. Regaining his footing, Daniel stood absolutely still in the lightless chamber, simply listening as he tried to figure out why Richard hadn't followed him into the room. He relaxed a little when he heard the other man's voice muffled through the door, saying, "Ladies.Might I convince you both to join me in my office for a drink before you retire?" Daniel adjusted the hold he had on George, but it helped little. The man was stiff as a board and unbending. He may as well have been a life-sized statue.

I am an urchin, standing in the cold, elbowed aside by the glossy rich visitors in their fur coats and ostentatious jewellery, being fussed into the hotel by pompous-looking doormen. 'No problem. I'd better get home, actually Mr – Gustav. A drink is very tempting, but maybe not such a good idea after all.' I pat my pockets. 'And I'm skint.' 'Pavements not paved with gold yet, eh?' He moves on along the facade of the grand hotel to the corner, and waits. He's staring not back at me but down St James Street. I wage a little war with myself. He's a stranger, remember. The newspaper headlines, exaggerated by the time they reach the office of Jake's local rag: Country girl from the sticks raped and murdered in London by suave conman. Even Poppy would be wagging her metaphorical finger at me by now. Blaming herself for not being there, looking out for me. But we're out in public here. Lots of people around us. He's charming. He's incredibly attractive. He's got a lovely deep, well spoken voice. And he's an entrepreneur who must be bloody rich if he owns more than one house. What the hell else am I going to do with myself when everyone else is out having fun? One thing I won't tell him is that my pockets might be empty, but my bank account is full. 'One drink. Then I must get back.' He doesn't answer or protest, but with a courtly bow he crooks his elbow and escorts me down St James. We turn right and into the far more subtle splendour of Dukes Hotel. 'Dress code?' I ask nervously, wiping my feet obediently on the huge but welcoming doormat and drifting ahead of him into the smart interior where domed and glassed corridors lead here and there. The foyer smells of mulled wine and candles and entices you to succumb to its perfumed embrace.

He was taking another hit from his short-and-squat of Goose when his eyes skipped to the arched doorway of the room. Jane hesitated as she glanced inside, her white coat opening as she leaned to the side, as if she were looking for him. When their eyes met, she smiled a little. And then a lot. His first impulse was to hide his own grin behind his Goose. But then he stopped himself. New world order. Come on, smile, motherfucker, he thought. Jane gave a short wave and played it cool, which was what they usually did when they were together in public. Turning away, she headed over to the bar to make herself something. “Hold up, cop,” V murmured, putting his drink down and bracing his cue against the table. Feeling like he was fifteen, he put his hand-rolled between his teeth and tucked his wife-beater tightly into the waistband of his leathers. A quick smooth of the hair and he was . . . well, as ready as he could be. He approached Jane from behind just as she struck up a convo with Mary—and when his shellan pivoted around to greet him, she seemed a little surprised that he’d come up to her. “Hi, V . . . How are—” Vishous stepped in close, putting them body to body, and then he wrapped his arms around her waist. Holding her with possession, he slowly bent her backward until she gripped his shoulders and her hair fell from her face. As she gasped, he said exactly what he thought: “I missed you.” And on that note, he put his mouth on hers and kissed the ever-living hell out of her, sweeping one hand down to her hip as he slipped his tongue in her mouth, and kept going and going and going . . . He was vaguely aware that the room had fallen stone silent and that everything with a heartbeat was staring at him and his mate. But whatever. This was what he wanted to do, and he was going to do it in front of everyone—and the king’s dog, as it turned out. Because Wrath and Beth came in from the foyer. As Vishous slowly righted his shellan, the catcalls and whistling started up, and someone threw a handful of popcorn like it was confetti. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Hollywood said. And threw more popcorn. Vishous cleared his throat. “I have an announcement to make.” Right. Okay, there were a lot of eyes on the pair of them. But he was so going to suck up his inclination to bow out. Tucking his flustered and blushing Jane into his side, he said loud and clear: “We’re getting mated. Properly. And I expect you all to be there and . . . Yeah, that’s it.” Dead. Quiet. Then Wrath released the handle on George’s harness and started to clap. Loud and slow. “About. Fucking. Time.

Honestly, sir,” I said, “I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.” We had excused ourselves to speak privately for a moment, leaving poor Charlie politely rocking on his heels in the foyer. The office was warm and smelled of sage and witch hazel, and the desk was littered with bits of twine and herbs where Jackaby had been preparing fresh wards. Douglas had burrowed into a nest of old receipts on the bookshelf behind us and was sound asleep with his bill tucked back into his wing. I had given up trying to get him to stop napping on the paperwork. “You’re the one who told me that I shouldn’t have to choose between profession and romance,” I said. “I’m not the one making a fuss. I don’t care the least bit about your little foray into . . . romance.” Jackaby pushed the word out of his mouth as though it had been reluctantly clinging to the back of his throat. “If anything, I am concerned that you are choosing to make precisely the choice that I told you you should not make!” “What? Wait a moment. Are you . . . jealous?” “Don’t be asinine! I am not jealous! I am merely . . . protective. And perhaps troubled by your lack of fidelity to your position.” “That is literally the definition of jealous, sir. Oh, for goodness’ sake. I’m not choosing Charlie over you! I’m not going to suddenly stop being your assistant just because I spend time working on another case!” “You might!” he blurted out. He sank down into the chair at his desk. “You just might.” “Why are you acting like this?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because things change. Because people change. Because . . . because Charlie Barker is going to propose,” he said. He let his hand drop and looked me in the eyes. “Marriage,” he added. “To you.” I blinked. “I miss a social cue or two from time to time, but even I’m not thick enough to believe all that was about analyzing bloodstains together. He has the ring. It’s in his breast pocket right now. He’s attached an absurd level of emotional investment to the thing—I’m surprised it hasn’t burned a hole right through the front of his jacket, the way its aura is glowing. He’s nervous about it. He’s going to propose. Soon, I would guess.” I blinked. The air in front of me wavered like a mirage, and in another moment Jenny had rematerialized. “And if he does,” she said softly, “it will be Abigail’s decision to face, not yours. There are worse fates than to receive a proposal from a handsome young suitor.” She added, turning to me with a grin, “Charlie is a good man.” “Yes, fine! But she has such prodigious potential!” Jackaby lamented. “Having feelings is one thing—I can grudgingly tolerate feelings—but actually getting married? The next thing you know they’ll be wanting to do something rash, like live together ! Miss Rook, you have started something here that I am loath to see you leave unfinished. You’ve started becoming someone here whom I truly want to meet when she is done. Choosing to leave everything you have here to go be a good man’s wife would be such a wretched waste of that promise.” He faltered, looking to Jenny, and then to the floorboards. “On the other hand, you should never have chosen to work for me in the first place. It remains one of your most ill-conceived and reckless decisions to date—and that is saying something, because you also chose to blow up a dragon once.” He sighed. “Jenny is right. You could make a real life with that young man, and you shouldn’t throw that away just to hang about with a fractious bastard and a belligerent duck.” He sagged until his forehead was resting on his desk.

I'm unaccustomed to being cooped up all day-I really must insist that you permit me to enjoy a short walk." "Not on your life," Fletcher growled. From the sound, Breckenridge realized the group had moved closer to the tap. "You don't need to think you're going to give us the slip so easily," Fletcher said again. "My dear good man"-Heather with her nose in the air; Breckenridge could tell by her tone-"just where in this landscape of empty fields do you imagine I'm going to slip to?" Cobbins opined that she might try to steal a horse and ride off. "Oh,yes-in a round gown and evening slippers," Heather jeered. "But I wasn't suggesting you let me ramble on my own-Martha can come with me." That was Martha's cue to enter the fray, but Heather stuck to her guns, refusing to back down through the ensuing, increasingly heated verbal stoush. Until Fletcher intervened, aggravated frustration resonating in his voice. "Look you-we're under strict orders to keep you safe, not to let you wander off to fall prey to the first shiftless rake who rides past and takes a fancy to you." Silence reigned for half a minute, then Heather audibly sniffed. "I'll have you know that shiftless rakes know better than to take a fancy to me." Not true, Breckenridge thought, but that wasn't the startling information contained in Fletcher's outburst. "Come on, Heather-follow up." As if she'd heard his muttered exhortation, she blithely swept on. "But if rather than standing there arguing, you instead treated me like a sensible adult and told me what your so strict orders with respect to me were, I might see my way to complying-or at least to helping you comply with them." Breckenridge blinked as he sorted through that pronouncement; he could almost feel for Fletcher when he hissed out a sigh. "All right," Fletcher's frustration had reached breaking point. "If you must know, we're to keep you safe from all harm. We're not to let a bloody pigeon pluck so much as a hair from your head. We're to deliver you up in prime condition, exactly as you were when he grabbed you." From the change in Fletcher's tone, Breckenridge could visualize him moving closer to tower over Heather to intimidate her into backing down; he could have told him it wouldn't work. "So now you see," Fletcher went on, voice low and forceful, "that it's entirely out of the question for you to go out for any ramble." "Hmm." Heather's tone was tellingly mild. Fletcher was about to get floored by an uppercut. For once not being on the receiving end, Breckenridge grinned and waited for it to land. "If, as you say, your orders are to-do correct me if I'm wrong-keep me in my customary excellent health until you hand me over to your employer, then, my dear Fletcher, that will absolutely necessitate me going for a walk. Being cooped up all day in a carriage has never agreed with me-if you don't wish me to weaken or develop some unhealthy affliction, I will require fresh air and gentle exercise to recoup." She paused, then went on, her tone one of utmost reasonableness, "A short excursion along the river at the rear of the inn, and back, should restore my constitution." Breckenridge was certain he could hear Fletcher breathing in and out through clenched teeth. A fraught moment passed on, then, "Oh, very well! Martha-go with her. Twenty minutes, do you hear? Not a minute more." "Thank you, Fletcher. Come, Martha-we don't want to waste the light." Breckenridge heard Heather, with the rather slower Martha, leave the inn by the main door. He sipped his ale, waited. Eventually, Fletcher and Cobbins climbed the stairs, Cobbins grumbling, Fletcher ominously silent. The instant they passed out of hearing, Breckenridge stood, stretched, then walked out of the tap and into the foyer. Seconds later, he slipped out of the front door.

J’ai remarqué souvent que quand deux amis pétersbourgeois se rencontrent quelque part, après s’être salués, ils demandent en même temps : Quoi de neuf ? il y a une tristesse particulière dans leurs voix, quelle qu’ait été l’intonation initiale de leur conversation. En effet, une désespérance totale est liée à cette question à Pétersbourg. Mais le plus agaçant c’est que, très souvent, l’homme qui la pose est tout à fait indifférent, un Pétersbourgeois de naissance, qui connaît très bien la coutume, sait d’avance qu’on ne lui répondra rien, qu’il n’y a rien de nouveau, qu’il a posé cette question peut-être mille fois sans aucun succès ; cependant, il la pose, et il a l’air de s’y intéresser, comme si les convenances l’obligeaient de participer lui aussi à la vie publique, d’avoir des intérêts publics. Mais les intérêts publics... C’est-à-dire nous ne nions pas que nous ayons des intérêts publics ; nous tous aimons ardemment la patrie, nous aimons notre cher Pétersbourg, nous aimons jouer si l’occasion se présente. En un mot il y a beaucoup d’intérêts publics. Mais ce qu’il y a surtout chez nous, ce sont les groupes. On sait que Pétersbourg n’est que la réunion d’un nombre considérable de petits groupes dont chacun a ses statuts, ses conventions, ses lois, sa logique et son oracle. C’est en quelque sorte le produit de notre caractère national qui a encore peur de la vie publique et tient plutôt au foyer. En outre, la vie publique exige un certain art ; il faut s’y préparer ; il faut beaucoup de conditions. Aussi, l’on préfère la maison. Là, tout est plus simple ; il ne faut aucun art ; on est plus tranquille. Dans le groupe, on vous répondra bravement à la question : Quoi de neuf ? La question reçoit tout de suite un sens particulier, et l’on vous répond ou par un potin, ou par un bâillement, ou par quelque chose qui vous force vous-même à bâiller cyniquement, magistralement. Dans le groupe, on peut traîner de la façon la meilleure et la plus douce une vie utile entre le bâillement et le ragot, jusqu’au moment où la grippe, ou bien la fièvre chaude, visite votre demeure ; et vous quittez alors la vie stoïquement, avec indifférence, sans savoir comment et pourquoi tout cela était avec vous jusqu’alors. Aujourd’hui, dans l’obscurité, au crépuscule, après une triste journée, plein d’étonnement que tout se soit arrangé ainsi, il semble qu’on ait vécu, qu’on ait atteint quelque chose, et tout à coup, on ne sait pas pourquoi, il faut quitter ce monde agréable et sans soucis pour émigrer dans un monde meilleur. Dans certains groupes, d’ailleurs, on parle fortement de la cause. Quelques personnes instruites et bien intentionnées se réunissent. On bannit sévèrement tous les plaisirs innocents, comme les potins et la préférence, et, avec un entrain incompréhensible, on parle de différents sujets très importants. Enfin, après avoir bavardé, parlé, résolu quelques questions d’utilité générale, et après avoir réussi à imposer aux uns et aux autres une opinion sur toutes choses, le groupe est saisi d’une irritation quelconque et commence à s’affaiblir considérablement. Finalement, tous se fâchent les uns contre les autres. On se dit quelques dures vérités. Quelques caractères tranchants se font jour et tout se termine par la dislocation totale. Ensuite on se calme ; on fait provision de bon sens et, peu à peu, l’on se réunit de nouveau dans le groupe décrit ci-dessus. Sans doute il est agréable de vivre ainsi. Mais à la longue cela devient irritant ; cela irrite fortement.