Fresh Bed Sheets Quotes

When we spend time together, I feel this peace that I don't get when you're not around. It's kind of like when you're a kid, and you put on fresh PJs after a bath and get into a made bed with clean sheets straight out of the dryer. That's what being with you feels like.

I can't give you up now. When we spend time together, I feel this peace that I don't get when you're not around. It's kind of like when you're a kid, and you put on fresh PJs after a bath and get into a made bed with clean sheets straight out of the dryer. That's what being with you feels like.

With a damp palm, I turned the knob and cracked open the door. She was asleep in her freshly made bed. I can’t explain how relieved I felt for this simple mercy. She was here and safe on clean sheets.

I watched the water swirl away entirely before I twisted my head to look at him. His fingers were gentle, but firm where he’d fisted them in my hair. “You never failed them,” I rasped. “I did … horrible things to ensure that.” Those violet eyes near-glowed in the dim light. “So did I.” My sweat clung like blood—the blood of those two faeries— I pivoted, barely turning in time. His other hand stroked long, soothing lines down the curve of my back, as over and over I yielded my dinner. When the latest wave had ebbed, I breathed, “The flames?” “Autumn Court.” I couldn’t muster a response. At some point, I leaned against the coolness of the nearby bathtub and closed my eyes. When I awoke, sun streamed through the windows, and I was in my bed—tucked in tightly to the fresh, clean sheets.

I thought of crawling in between the bed sheets and trying to sleep, but that appealed to me about as much as stuffing a dirty, scrawled-over letter into a fresh, clean envelope. I decided to take a hot bath. There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.

Then you must also spend the night. We are miles from an inn, and I can promise you that the sheets are fresh and clean." And the beds are lumpier than those at any posting house.

But you sent off that Flounder fellow," Loki said, and I rolled my eyes. "His name is Finn, and I know you know that," I said as I left the room. Loki grabbed the vacuum and followed me. "You called him by his name this morning." "Fine, I know his name," Loki admitted. We went into the next room, and he set down the vacuum as I started peeling the dusty blankets off the bed. "But you were okay with Finn going off to Oslinna, but not Duncan?" "Finn can handle himself," I said tersely. The bedding got stuck on a corner, and Loki came over to help me free it. Once he had, I smiled thinly at him. "Thank you." "But I know you had a soft spot for Finn," Loki continued. "My feelings for him have no bearing on his ability to do his job." I tossed the dirty blankets at Loki. He caught them easily before setting them down by the door, presumably for Duncan to take to the laundry chute again. "I've never understood exactly what your relationship with him was, anyway," Loki said. I'd started putting new sheets on the bed, and he went around to the other side to help me. "Were you two dating?" "No." I shook my head. "We never dated. We were never anything." I continued to pull on the sheets, but Loki stopped, watching me. "I don't know if that's a lie or not, but I do know that he was never good enough for you." "But I suppose you think you are?" I asked with a sarcastic laugh. "No, of course I'm not good enough for you," Loki said, and I lifted my head to look up at him, surprised by his response. "But I at least try to be good enough." "You think Finn doesn't?" I asked, standing up straight. "Every time I've seen him around you, he's telling you what to do, pushing you around." He shook his head and went back to making the bed. "He wants to love you, I think, but he can't. He won't let himself, or he's incapable. And he never will." The truth of his words stung harder than I'd thought they would, and I swallowed hard. "And obviously, you need someone that loves you," Loki continued. "You love fiercely, with all your being. And you need someone that loves you the same. More than duty or the monarchy or the kingdom. More than himself even." He looked up at me then, his eyes meeting mine, darkly serious. My heart pounded in my chest, the fresh heartache replaced with something new, something warmer that made it hard for me to breathe. "But you're wrong." I shook my head. "I don't deserve that much." "On the contrary, Wendy." Loki smiled honestly, and it stirred something inside me. "You deserve all the love a man has to give." I wanted to laugh or blush or look away, but I couldn't. I was frozen in a moment with Loki, finding myself feeling things for him I didn't think I could ever feel for anyone else. "I don't know how much more laundry we can fit down the chute," Duncan said as he came back in the room, interrupting the moment. I looked away from Loki quickly and grabbed the vacuum cleaner. "Just get as much down there as you can," I told Duncan. "I'll try." He scooped up another load of bedding to send downstairs. Once he'd gone, I glanced back at Loki, but, based on the grin on his face, I'd say his earlier seriousness was gone. "You know, Princess, instead of making that bed, we could close the door and have a roll around in it." Loki wagged his eyebrows. "What do you say?" Rolling my eyes, I turned on the vacuum cleaner to drown out the conversation. "I'll take that as a maybe later!" Loki shouted over it.

You see, what I really want, and what I'm getting with Stephen, is the opportunity to rebuild myself from scratch. David's picture of me is complete now, and I'm pretty sure neither of us likes it much; I want to rip the page out and start again on a fresh sheet, just like I used to do when I was a kid and had messed a drawing up. It doesn't even matter who the fresh sheet is, really, so its beside the point whether I like Stephen, or whether he knows what to do with me in bed, or anything like that. I just want his rapt attention when I tell him that my favorite book is Middlemarch, and i just want that feeling, the feeling I get with him, of having not gone wrong yet

It’s been twenty-four years now that I’ve been coming here. And every summer, Célia spends the day before my arrival filling up the fridge and putting clean sheets on the beds.

The Guardian's Wildchild: Lorna tossed used linen onto the floor and snapped fresh sheets into place on the bed. She fluffed pillows into submission so they sat only as her big hands demanded. Lorna turned around and saw Sam standing in the main infirmary. She hustled into the main room and snapped to attention in front of him. “You caught me working again.” She feigned worry. “Damn!

For me? Oh, God. My idea of the perfect life would be if we just stayed in bed all the time. We could make love more or less continuously, and only get up to bring supplies, you know, fresh water and fruit to scurvy, and make occasional trips to the bathroom to shave before diving back to bed. And once in a while we could change the sheets. And go to the movies to prevent bedsores. And running. I would still have to run every morning.

Excerpt from Forehead Kisses: "I woke to the sizzle and smell of bacon, fresh brewed coffee, and the soft patter of rain on the window. Cooper was nowhere to be seen. My clock radio read 7:35 a.m. I rolled over on my stomach and just laid quietly in bed absorbing the sweet sounds and smells. About 10 minutes later I heard Cooper come into the room. I felt the bed rock as he kneeled on and crawled across it, ultimately straddling my body. He pulled the sheet down exposing my naked back. He placed gentle, wet kisses down my spine, “Good morning Beautiful.

He looked like a circus acrobat who had been reassigned to bedpans and taken to them like a duck to water. He didn't miss a beat while they talked and his military bed-making was hypnotic to watch (...) He stripped beds, bundled dirty sheets, shook out fresh ones and then wound mattresses in them as neat and as tight as if he ws working in the gift-wrap department of the Great Pyramid at Giza. M. wondered how the hell the old folk managed to fight their way between the top and bottoms sheets every night, and had a mental image of residents spending years shivering above the covers, too frail to gain entry to their won beds.

The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna" Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him, But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But left him alone with his glory.

He helped me clean out my head in time for floweret sunshine, while I raked dead leaves from underneath the bed of my nails that were waiting to be organized in diaries. As the 'Forbidding Numb' piled up, he laundered my abandoned hope clean. All that I could smell on my hands were the roots of the root words I had diluted with extra letters and slushiness. There isn't a corner that we missed; and, in no time at all, I will forget the wretchedness of this winter. Soon, I will only smell peonies and calla lilies, fresh cotton sheets, and maybe—just maybe— the paperless books that I have written being pressed like petals; yet, no longer incinerators burning perished wood that already pushed up daisies right when autumn left its leaves behind me.

As I took off the rumpled sheets, the smell of the people who had slept in them would lift up into the air. There was the round, almost sweet sweat smell of a child who had spent a day happily exploring, or the sharper-edged odor of one who'd gone to bed unhappy. With the bigger beds, I came to understand the way the scents of two people could mingle as effortlessly as rainwater, and to recognize the times they stayed apart, the smells resolutely separate. Sometimes there were those unreal perfumes, jumbling and talking too loudly- but underneath them I could always find the person. Sadness, like the dark purple juice of a blackberry. Fear, like the metallic taste of an oncoming storm. Love, which smelled like nothing so much as fresh bread. In an odd way, the game wasn't that different from reading the smells of our island. Scents were always about what was growing and what was dying. What would last through the next season. This was just with people instead of trees or flowers or dirt.

Just meat on a stick with the vague sense that somewhere between lavish femininity And state violence lay a mediocre thing called liberty. Still, to be able to sleep at all’s a procedure of waking. Everybody Has to live somewhere being that we are here where most Of us are not welcome. Did you know transcendental Homelessness was a thing. But I dreamed this dream On a physical mattress. On an actual floor in a room with a door That I pay and pay for. If you write you can forge A substance that is other than the woman of substance You are. If you do it to such a point you can find Yourself declining substance altogether. It happens. It is a danger. But there will Always be the idea of a bath or a sleep in a bed or a dream In the head of a woman who is even beautiful visibly Or at least groomed, or somewhat fresh Or like that most domestic of bugs the cockroach Dragging his ponderous suit of armor across the floor Or clean sheets when it’s raining and I love you so much And I think Gimme Shelter, which is a movie I’ve never seen.

Knowing I may never see the room again makes me look at it with fresh eyes. A fire glows in the hearth nestled into the back wall. A square, worn brown rug sits in the middle of the room. Two sets of bunk beds are arranged on either side of the rug. Only mine, the bottom bed closest to the fireplace, has the sheets tucked in and the quilt smoothed. As soon as the boys graduated from school, Mom declared them old enough to tidy up their own beds. And they decided they were old enough not to care whether they slept in tightly tucked sheets. We each have a wooden chest for our everyday clothes and shoes. The special clothes are hung in the large wooden armoire in the corner. Mother always talks about first impressions. I gnaw on my bottom lip and weigh the merits of all my clothes. Feeling confident is always easier when dressed in something special, but I hear my father’s voice replay in my head. I imagine the abandoned city street he walked in his dream. The two dresses I own won’t help me there. And even if the dreams aren’t real, I know in my heart pretty clothes won’t help once The Testing begins.

A private car was waiting for us and Renée and I were driven back to the Pleasure Prison. As we rode along I was thinking, “Why do I feel so inflated, so pumped up, so on edge? I have been here eight weeks and worked only eight days.” I mean, talk about mad dogs and Englishmen, the British were incredible. A sixty-year-old makeup man stood for hours each day in the burning sun, just to press ice packs on our necks so we wouldn’t faint, and I was complaining? I was feeling ravaged, all spoiled and puffed up. But, oh, how I was going to miss it. How I was going to miss it. Riding in the car, I said a silent farewell. Farewell to the fantastic breakfasts, the pineapple like I’d never tasted and probably never will taste again. Farewell to the fresh mango and papaya, farewell to the Thai maid and the fresh, clean, cotton sheets on the king-size bed every night. Farewell to the incredible free lunches under the circus tent with fresh meat flown in from America every day. Roast lamb, roast potatoes and green beans at 110 degrees, in accordance with British Equity. Farewell to the cakes and teas and ices at four. Farewell to the Thai driver with the tinted glasses and the Mercedes with the one-way windows. Farewell to the single fresh rose in the glass on my bureau every morning. And just as I was dozing off in the Pleasure Prison, I had a flash. An inkling. I suddenly thought I knew what it was that killed Marilyn Monroe.

She showed him to the guest bedroom down the hall. There were a few boxes of first-aid kits and three kerosene heaters in the room, but she’d been keeping this room mostly clear and the bed made with fresh sheets every week for over thirty years. There was a void—which still existed, just better concealed these days—left in her home after Evanelle’s husband died. During those sad days following his death, Lorelei would spend the night with Evanelle, but she stopped as she got older and wilder. Then Claire would stay the night sometimes when she was young, but she liked to stay at home mostly. Evanelle never imagined Fred would be staying here one day. But surprises were nothing new to her. Like opening a can of mushroom soup and finding tomato instead; be grateful and eat it anyway.

To make Soy-Glazed Salmon, reduce 1 cup soy sauce, 2 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds, 1/2 cup packed brown sugar, and a pinch of cayenne pepper in a saucepan over high heat until it’s the consistency of maple syrup. Add 1 clove pounded or finely grated garlic and 1 tablespoon finely grated fresh ginger. Skip the bed of herbs, line the baking sheet with parchment paper, and brush the glaze onto a 2-pound filet of salmon immediately before cooking, basting every 15 minutes or so as it roasts.

Baba Ghanoush over Mixed Greens Serves: 4 1 (1½-pound) eggplant 1 cup cooked garbanzo beans or low-sodium or no-salt-added canned garbanzo beans 2 tablespoons raw tahini or unhulled sesame seeds 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped ⅓ cup water 1 teaspoon Bragg Liquid Aminos 5 ounces romaine lettuce, chopped 5 ounces mixed baby greens Preheat the oven to 350˚F. Prick eggplant, place on baking sheet, and bake for 45 minutes, turning occasionally, until soft. Let it cool and then peel. In a high-powered blender, combine eggplant, garbanzo beans, tahini, lemon juice, garlic, water, and Bragg Liquid Aminos. Blend until smooth. Combine romaine and mixed baby greens and serve baba ghanoush on a bed of greens. Baba ghanoush and greens can also be served in a whole wheat pita or wrap. PER SERVING: CALORIES 155; PROTEIN 8g; CARBOHYDRATE 23g; TOTAL FAT 5.1g; SATURATED FAT 0.7g; SODIUM 83mg; FIBER 9.2g; BETA-CAROTENE 3954mcg; VITAMIN C 13mg; CALCIUM 104mg; IRON 2.5mg; FOLATE 190mcg; MAGNESIUM 61mg; ZINC 1.4mg; SELENIUM 2.4mcg

Saturday was general cleaning day in accordance with the rules laid down by the Foundress. Every nun, professed or lay, scrubbed down her cell, took her linen to the laundry room, made up her narrow bed with fresh sheets and changed her underwear for the second time in a week.

Already, a few petals had fallen, heavy and waxen, to the pavement after a windy night. The air was fresh but not too cold. A night's buffeting had left the new day feeling rumpled but clean, like a fresh sheet on the bed

When we spend time together, I feel this peace that I don’t get when you’re not around. It’s kind of like when you’re a kid, and you put on fresh PJs after a bath and get into a made bed with clean sheets straight out of the dryer. That’s what being with you feels like.

Often when I do interviews and press events from space, I’m asked what I miss about Earth. I have a few answers I always reach for that make sense in any context: I mention rain, spending time with my family, relaxing at home. Those are always true. But throughout the day, from moment to moment, I’m aware of missing all sorts of random things that don’t even necessarily rise to the surface of my consciousness. I miss cooking. I miss chopping fresh food, the smell vegetables give up when you first slice into them. I miss the smell of the unwashed skins of fruit, the sight of fresh produce piled high in grocery stores. I miss grocery stores, the shelves of bright colors and the glossy tile floors and the strangers wandering the aisles. I miss people. I miss the experience of meeting new people and getting to know them, learning about a life different from my own, hearing about things people experienced that I haven’t. I miss the sound of children playing, which always sounds the same no matter their language. I miss the sound of people talking and laughing in another room. I miss rooms. I miss doors and door frames and the creak of wood floorboards when people walk around in old buildings. I miss sitting on my couch, sitting on a chair, sitting on a bar stool. I miss the feeling of resting after opposing gravity all day. I miss the rustle of papers, the flap of book pages turning. I miss drinking from a glass. I miss setting things down on a table and having them stay there. I miss the sudden chill of wind on my back, the warmth of sun on my face. I miss showers. I miss running water in all its forms: washing my face, washing my hands. I miss sleeping in a bed—the feel of sheets, the heft of a comforter, the welcoming curve of a pillow. I miss the colors of clouds at different times of day and the variety of sunrises and sunsets on Earth.

Locke turned to see him sitting against the opposite wall on a hanging bed furnished with embroidered sheets. Jean had fresh bruises on his bare forearms and around his eyes. ‘Gods,’ said Locke. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ ‘Remember how she joked about twenty armed people in the next room?’ said Jean with a sigh. He set down the book he’d been reading. ‘There were twenty armed people in the next room.

Night came and she continued breathing at the same sterile pace. But when the pre-dawn light lit the bedroom softly, things emerged fresh from shadow, she felt the new morning insinuating itself between the sheets and opened her eyes. She sat up in bed. Inside her it was as if death didn’t exist, as if love could weld her, as if eternity were renewal.

Steven unplugged the tub with a motion of his toe. “You’d better turn your back, Emma, because I’m about to stand up if I can manage it.” Emma complied quickly, praying Steven would be able to execute the feat on his own, that he wouldn’t fall and crack his skull open. She held her breath. “Can’t do it,” he said on a frustrated sigh, and there was a splash as he settled back into the water, which was steadily draining down the pipes. “You’ll have to help me again.” “Oh, dear,” Emma fussed. Then she went to the end of the tub and, keeping her eyes carefully closed, put her arms under Steven’s and tried to hoist him to his feet. This required both of them to give their utmost, but they succeeded, and Emma hastened to hold the robe out to Steven, keeping her head averted. They were just beginning the arduous trip back up the stairs when Doc Waverly himself knocked at the glass in the back door, an affable smile on his face. Emma had never been gladder to see anyone in all her life. Doc opened the door and came inside at her nod. “Afternoon,” he said cheerfully. “Giving our patient a bath?” Emma flushed. “Actually, he gave himself a bath. I just helped him downstairs.” “Liar,” Steven whispered, his warm breath caressing her ear. “His wrapping is wet, though,” Emma went on, speaking in an unnaturally loud voice, as though to drown out anything more Steven might say. “I’ll change that,” Doc Waverly said. He took Emma’s place under Steven’s arm, and she bolted immediately for the stairs. “I’ll put fresh sheets on his bed while you’re bringing him up,” she called back. She had managed the entire task by the time Steven and the doctor arrived at the doorway of the guest room, so slow was their advance. Steven was ashen with pain, but he smiled at Emma when he saw her step back from his freshly made bed. “Thank you,” he said. “I think you could use a shot of whiskey,” said the doctor, “and so could I.” After

I want to run my fingers through your curly hair and kiss your soft lips, and neck, and bosom, and…” Luke seemed lost in a daze. “And…?” Allison whispered, searching to know more of his intentions. Her skin was soft as he caressed it with his fingers. He leaned in closer to her, breathing in her fresh perfume. He touched her ear with his lips and whispered slowly and gently into it. The corners of his mouth went up as he talked, and Allison’s cheeks flustered, red and hot. She was hot with desire, stirred by his words. She no longer frowned, pondering the feeble life. Instead, she grabbed him tightly and kissed him. Her lips sank into his, her tongue searching and finding his. It was early in the morning, and through the thin, white curtains the room was flooded with a warm glow. They lay completely naked on the bed, their bodies tangled and ruffling the white sheets, searching each other for more. More to touch, more to kiss, more to pleasure, more to love.

Indeed there is something comforting about an ordered life, kept agreements, and the simple act of cleaning up after one's self. The smooth surface of a clean sheet, pulled taut over the mattress is refreshing. It feels better than laying in a bed of wrinkles. That the mind could be as clear as a freshly ironed sheet! (From "The Handkerchief" in New to North America)

I can’t give you up now. When we spend time together, I feel this peace that I don’t get when you’re not around. It’s kind of like when you’re a kid, and you put on fresh PJs after a bath and get into a made bed with clean sheets straight out of the dryer. That’s what being with you feels like.

Any given room, behind any given door, someone else’s life was on fire. Not the life lived at home, not the cable-and-bed-by-9: 00-p.m. life, waiting around to die. The hotel life: boundless, foreign, debaucherous, freshly laundered, exploratory, scantily clad, imaginative, frightening, expensive, and brand fucking new. I wandered the hallways every day like a guard keeper in the house of reinvention. Whatever these people were getting into, whatever their lives had become, I made sure that if they vacated the room for an hour’s time, they had clean sheets to do it on, new soap to scrub it off with, fresh towels to wipe it down, a clean robe to cover it up, and a fresh pillow to sleep it off on.

As for the little banshees, when they returned home they, too, were satisfied. “I wouldn’t mind marrying him,” said the eldest, Hope. “I wouldn’t either,” said Faith. “Nor me,” said Charity. “I w-wouldn’t…mind, too.” Then they sighed. “Mother will tell us which one it’s going to be,” said Hope. “As long as it’s not Prudence.” Prudence was still in nappies and far too small to be in the running, but she had curls and a dimple and her sisters hated her. As for Clovis, he lay freshly bathed in a linen nightshirt between cool and spotless sheets. No mosquito netting, no flypaper, no beetles…yes, he would definitely hold out for at least a week. He had promised Finn and he would do it. But Sir Aubrey was not yet in bed. He had limped up to the Picture Gallery at the top of the house and stood for a long time looking at the portrait of Alwin Taverner in his naval uniform. Really, the likeness was extraordinary! The nose, the eyes, the mouth, the way his hair fell over his forehead--all of it was the same as in the boy who had come today. It happened sometimes that a likeness skipped a few generations and then showed up stronger than ever, thought Sir Aubrey. That was the amazing thing about The Blood.

I faded out. I was for a moment my father tapping on his cigarette, the way he holds it, crushing it flat. I was my mother at the sink, staring into the desert from the kitchen window, dishes in hand. I was in all the beds I'd ever slept in. Me sinking into the sheets, letting my thoughts fall down. I was running alongside the ocean, Laura splashing me with water. I was dancing to a melody I did not recognize, spinning wild and lovely into exalted leaps. I was no one again. I was someone with no name, no past. My face resumed the freshness of birth, the brightness was again in my eyes, the brightness only children own before life begins its wreckage.

He had a feeling something was off, not right somehow in a nagging way. He peeled out of his clothes and stretched out on the mattress, but still, the sense of something missing wouldn’t leave him. Anna, he realized as he slipped between the freshly laundered sheets. He’d gone all of two or three hours without seeing her, and her absence was tolling in the back of his mind. All the more reason, he thought, closing his eyes, to get back to Town where his routine would prevent prolonged periods of proximity such as they’d had at Welbourne. Wanting to bed the woman—even offering to wed her—wasn’t the same as wanting to live in her pocket, after all. A man would have to be besotted to allow feelings like that.

with bleach and scrubbed the washbasin and the bath. He’d put a clean under-sheet on the bed and a fresh cover, in a pretty shade of lilac,

I miss cooking. I miss chopping fresh food, the smell vegetables give up when you first slice into them. I miss the smell of the unwashed skins of fruit, the sight of fresh produce piled high in grocery stores. I miss grocery stores, the shelves of bright colors and the glossy tile floors and the strangers wandering the aisles. I miss people. I miss the experience of meeting new people and getting to know them, learning about a life different from my own, hearing about things people experienced that I haven't. I miss the sound of children playing, which always sounds the same no matter their language. I miss the sound of people talking and laughing in another room. I miss rooms. I miss doors and door frames and the creak of wood floorboards when people walk around in old buildings. I miss sitting on my couch, sitting on a chair, sitting on a bar stool. I miss the feeling of resting after opposing gravity all day. I miss the rustle of papers, the flap of book pages turning. I miss drinking from a glass. I miss setting things down on a table and having them stay there. I miss the sudden chill of wind on my back, the warmth of sun on my face. I miss showers. I miss running water in all its forms: washing my face, washing my hands. I miss sleeping in a bed - the feel of sheets, the heft of a comforter, the welcoming curve of a pillow. I miss the colors of clouds at different times of day and the variety of sunrises and sunsets on Earth.

This morning I prepared the bridal bed. How fresh the sheets smelt, The pillows were plump with anticipation, Like me. We’ve covered every angle, the mistress and me. I am to smother myself in her sweet perfume And let down my hair – although the colour does not compare. But he will not notice: The lights will be dimmed and the King will be blinded with love.

While she soaked, I stripped the bed and put it all in the washing machine. I washed her sheets daily, compliments of my OCD. If she was going to be in her bed for twelve hours a day, at least the sheets could be fresh. My endeavor was to keep her and everything around her clean and comforting.

Anna, he realized as he slipped between the freshly laundered sheets. He’d gone all of two or three hours without seeing her, and her absence was tolling in the back of his mind. All the more reason, he thought, closing his eyes, to get back to Town where his routine would prevent prolonged periods of proximity such as they’d had at Welbourne. Wanting to bed the woman—even offering to wed her—wasn’t the same as wanting to live in her pocket, after all. A man would have to be besotted to allow feelings like that.

Can I stay here?" In response, Mary smiled and opened the door wide. Tianna walked inside. Flames flickered in the hearth, and the smell of popcorn wrapped around her. Shannon and Todd looked up in surprise when they saw her. Shannon ran to her with arms spread as wide as wings, and Todd did happy wheelies around the room. Hours later, stomach filled with popcorn and Pepsi, Tianna crawled onto the soft cotton-flowered sheet and pulled the comforter over her head. Her bed smelled fresh and new, and she had a cozy feeling that she hadn't felt for a long time. Tears stung her eyes. She missed her parents and Jamie, but now at least she had a chance to start to live a normal life after so many years of running and living on the street. She stared out the window at the dark night sky and touched the amulet hanging around her neck. "Goddess," she murmured. The word felt so right.

[General William Donovan] wanted to see the beachhead, already nearly two weeks old, to smell powder, to sleep in a fox-hole and eat K-rations. Instead he found our outfit luxuriously installed in the Hotel Luna within rifle-shot of the fighting. Don Antonio, the proprietor, was prowling into no-man's land for good fresh Mozarella cheese. We had, all ninety of us, fresh sheets on our beds. The chambermaids wore spotless uniforms; the waiters served us in dinner jackets. The General was disappointed. He mumbled something about this being a hellova way to fight a war, and added a footnote about congressional investigations. Major John Roller suggested digging him a foxhole under the mimosa tree in the rose garden, but no one quite dared offer to do it.