Gunther Quotes

All happiness depends on a leisurely breakfast.

Granted: I AM an inmate of a mental hospital; my keeper is watching me, he never lets me out of his sight; there's a peep-hole in the door, and my keeper's eye is the shade of brown that can never see through a blue-eyed type like me.

On the whole it’s not wise to remind the devil that he’s the devil, especially when we were getting on so well.

When you get a cat to catch the mice in your kitchen, you can't expect it to ignore the rats in the cellar.

Live while you live, then die and be done with.

What is life? It departs covertly. Like a thief Death took him.

Intellectually, he is like interstellar space - a vast vacuum occasionally crossed by homeless, wandering clichés.

Count Hermann Keyserling once said truly that the greatest American superstition was belief in facts.

What do elves consider a living wage?" Keith whispered to Gunther. Gunther just shrugged. "Their own pair of pants?

Maybe the next world will be a pleasanter place than this

Yemen produces coffee, Egypt cotton, Iraq dates, Palestine oranges, and Syria trouble.

إن الإنجليز إنما يعبدون بنك انجلترا ستة أيام في الأسبوع ويتوجهون في اليوم السابع إلى الكنيسة

If a man's from Texas, he'll tell you. If he's not, why embarrass him by asking?

it is always the women who rebuild the civilizations that the men have done their best to destroy

He had not recognized me, and thought I was some master he did not know.

The real question here is what happens to you, Gunther. In many ways you’re a useful fellow to have around. Like a bent coat hanger in a toolbox, you’re not something that was ever designed for a specific job, but you do manage to come in useful sometimes.

(...) about one of his schools he said, "I would make the following criticisms. First, too much attention to marks. Second, too much religion. Third, no time for me to develop my own interests. Fourth, group discipline may be imposed unfairly".

Looking round the room I found there were so many false eyelashes flapping at me that I was beginning to feel a draught.

[José] Saramago for the last 25 years stood his own with any novelist of the Western world [..] He was the equal of Philip Roth, Gunther Grass, Thomas Pynchon and Don DeLillo. His genius was remarkably versatile — he was at once a great comic and a writer of shocking earnestness and grim poignancy. It is hard to believe he will not survive.

All men come to resemble their fathers. That isn’t a tragedy, but you need a hell of a sense of humour to handle it.

Winter came early that year. Snow filled the gray December air like fragments of torn-up hope

Petra Ral, 10 kills, 48 assists. Oluo Bozado, 39 kills, 9 assists. Eld Jinn, 14 kills, 32 assists. Gunther Schultz, 7 kills, 40 assists. "Come back home alive, and you're a full-fledged member," is the common view in the Survey Corps... but *those people* have lived through hell again and again, producing results all the way. They've learned how to live... When facing a titan, you never know enough. Think all you want. A lot of the time, you're going into a situation you know nothing about. So what you need is to be quick to act... and make tough decisions in worst-case scenarios. Still, that doesn't mean they've got no heart. Even when they had their weapons pointed at you, they had strong feelings. However... they have no regrets.

Adventure is what makes life worth living, and the way to have an adventure is to expose yourself to risk.

The fact is that fairness is a human concept. The rest of the universe knows nothing of it.

A man might think he can stare into the abyss without falling in but sometimes the abyss stares back. Sometimes the abyss exerts a strange effect on your sense of balance.

Looking at him I felt as if I had just met a powerful gorilla while at the same time being in possession of the world's last banana.

You didn't take part, Benjamin?" Gunther asked, as he passed me a plate of cheese and cold meat. "My brother doesn't play games," said Paul. "He's an aesthete. He sat by the window all afternoon with a funny look on his face: probably composing a tone poem.

I made an appointment to see him and then ordered another beer. While I was drinking it I did some doodling on a piece of paper, the algebraic kind that you hope will help you think more clearly. When I finished doing that, I was more confused than ever. Algebra was never my strong subject.

The word animal is a derivative of the Greek word anima, which also means soul.

She was shot dead, in cold blood," he said bitterly. I could see we were in for a long night. I got out my cigarettes.

God was always there. He sat beside us during the doctors’ consultations, as we waited the long vigils outside the operating room, as we rejoiced in the miracle of a brief recovery, as we agonized when hope ebbed away, and the doctors confessed there was nolonger anything they could do. They were helpless, and we were helpless, and in His way, God, standing by us in our hour of need, God in His infinite wisdom and mercy and loving kindness, God in all His omnipotence, was helpless too.

Talkativeness and charm are both, as is well-known, characteristics somewhat feminine; and they often add up to guile. Certainly there was a strong streak of the female in Roosevelt, though this is not to disparage his essential masculinity. Confidence in his own charm led him into occasional perilous adventures—almost as a woman may be persuaded with a long series of glittering successes behind her, to think she is irresistible forever and can win anybody's scalp.

Aren’t there any traits in your daughters – at least some – which you don’t really like and are against your own principles? Yet, will that affect your love towards your daughters? They’re our children, Gunther, our treasure, how can we ever hate them for whatever they do? We might get sad, might cry, might even hate our own selves, but we can never hate those little diamonds of our blood, or else, we are no longer to be called parents.

God was always there. He sat beside us during the doctors’ consultations, as we waited the long vigils outside the operating room, as we rejoiced in the miracle of a brief recovery, as we agonized when hope ebbed away, and the doctors confessed there was no longer anything they could do. They were helpless, and we were helpless, and in His way, God, standing by us in our hour of need, God in His infinite wisdom and mercy and loving kindness, God in all His omnipotence, was helpless too.

He was as obsequious as a Japanese ivy plant. Wringing his hands as if he hoped to squeeze the milk of human kindness from his fingernails, ...

By diversifying, you become a juggler trying to keep too many balls in the air all at once.

Respect the colony as an organism rather than a mechanism with interchangeable parts.

Just when you thought that things couldn’t get any worse, you find out that they’ve always been a lot worse than you thought they were. And then they get worse.

The trick, he said over and over again in any number of contexts, is to disregard what everybody tells you until you have thought it through for yourself.

There is evil in the best of us, of course; but perhaps just a little bit more in the worst of us.

I have often regretted my speech, but never my silence,

Going home to Millie; and the little boy who I know will rush into my arms when I get there; whose grey eyes will shine when he looks at me, who will smile with Gunther's smile.

One day I hoped some thoughtful historian would point out the close connection between the Mercedes-Benz motor car and Germany’s favorite dictator and that the Lord would find a way to pay these bastards back for their help in bringing the Nazis to power and keeping them there.

I wish we had loved Johnny more when he was alive. Of course we loved Johnny very much. Johnny knew that. Everybody knew it. Loving Johnny more. What does it mean, now? Parents all over the earth who lost sons in the war have felt this kind of question, and sought an answer. To me, it means loving life more, being more aware of life, of one's fellow human beings, of the earth. It means obliterating, in a curious but real way, the ideas of evil and hate and the enemy, and transmuting them, with the alchemy of suffering, into ideas of clarity and charity. It means caring more and more about other people, at home and abroad, all over the earth. It means caring more about God.

THE SWORD-WIELDER LOOKED DELIGHTED. “Chop off head?” His name, GUNTHER, was printed on an Amtrak name tag he wore over his armor—his only concession to being in disguise. “Not yet.” Luguselwa kept her eyes on us. “As you can see, Gunther loves decapitating people, so let’s play nice. Come along—

I jump to my feet in this dream within a dream. Although I am quite dry, I discover that the trees of the forest in which I have slept stand rooted in water. Beyond them, at the forest's edge, stretches a tarn. From the steely face of the tarn rises a mist, and there, where the mist swirls thickest, shimmering like a pale column risen from its depths, dripping tarn water and rotted rose petals, stands Gunther.

the man who succeeds is the man who is able to reduce problems to their simplest terms and who has the courage of his convictions - despite the objections of intellectuals. The courage to speak, perhaps, even when he believes that what he is suggesting sounds like madness.

Chaos is not dangerous until it begins to look orderly.

If we didn’t know that the devastating shellfire was coming from the Soviets, we could be forgiven for thinking that here, on 13 December, the end of the world had begun.

Always take your profit too soon.

The trick is to discern a market – before there is any proof that one exists.

His face was all sharp angles, thin and pointed, like something Pythagoras had doodled on the corner of his scroll before getting on with his theorem.

Worry is not a sickness but a sign of health. If you are not worried, you are not risking enough.

truth is rarely the truth and the things you thought weren’t true often turn out not to be false.

In case you’ve forgotten, that election made the hatred of Jews in this country socially respectable.

But nothing surprises me now. I’ve grown used to living in a world that is out of joint, as if it has been struck by an enormous earthquake so that the roads are no longer flat, nor the building straight.

I need to pee,” Meg announced. I stared at her, dumbfounded. Was she really going to follow Lu’s strange instructions? The Gaul had captured us and killed an innocent two-headed snake. Why would Meg trust her? Meg pressed her heel hard on the top of my foot. “Yes,” I squeaked. “I also need to pee.” For me, at least, this was painfully true. “Hold it,” Gunther grumbled. “I really need to pee.” Meg bounced up and down. Lu heaved a sigh. Her exasperation did not sound faked. “Fine.

It was an interesting dilemma and pointed up a real point of difference between Nazism and Communism as forms of government: there was no room for the individual in Soviet Russia; conversely not everything was state-managed in Germany. The Nazis never shot anyone for being stupid, inefficient or just plain unlucky. Generally speaking the Nazis looked for a reason to shoot you, the commies were quite happy to shoot you without any reason at all - but when you're going to be shot, what's the difference?

All successful marriages are based on some necessary hypocrisies. It’s only the unsuccessful ones where people always tell the truth to each other. The

This is the meaning of life, my friend. To know when you are well off and to hate or envy no man.

What they meant was that we, the young squirts, will shit in our pants the first time we get fired upon. Nonsense!

Rumours are often the only source of information for the common soldier. Even if they don’t exactly fit the facts, there is normally a certain amount of truth in them.

We prefer simple lies to complex truths.

To determine whether either Wonderland, or where you are at this moment, is reality, you have to know which side of the rabbit hole you entered.

With every vial of success there is always a pinch of madness.

A wise old owl sat on an oak. The more he saw, the less he spoke. The less he spoke, the more he heard. Why can’t we be like that old bird?

McGrath, Rita Gunther, and Ian C. MacMillan. The

If he was a member of the human race at all, Neumann was its least attractive specimen. His eyebrows, twitching and curling like two poisoned caterpillars, were joined together by an irregular scribble of poorly matched hair. Behind thick glasses that were almost opaque with greasy thumbprints, his grey eyes were shifty and nervous, searching the floor as if he expected that at any moment he would be lying flat on it. Cigarette smoke poured out from between teeth that were so badly stained with tobacco they looked like two wooden fences.

God was always there. He sat beside us during the doctors’ consultations, as we waited the long vigils outside the operating room, as we rejoiced in the miracle of a brief recovery, as we agonized when hope ebbed away, and the doctors confessed there was no longer anything they could do. They were helpless, and we were helpless, and in His way, God, standing by us in our hour of need, God in His infinite wisdom and mercy and loving kindness, God in all His omnipotence, was helpless too.

Berlin. I used to love this old city. But that was before it had caught sight of its own reflection and taken to wearing corsets laced so tight that it could hardly breathe. I loved the easy, carefree philosophies, the cheap jazz, the vulgar cabarets and all of the other cultural excesses that characterized the Weimar years and made Berlin seem like one of the most exciting cities in the world.

Less than two weeks after the riot, two officers committed suicide. The first was Capitol Police Officer Howard “Howie” Liebengood, a fifteen-year veteran and son of a former Senate sergeant-at-arms. The second was MPD Officer Jeffrey Smith, who took a fucking crowbar to the head during the riot from a Trump supporter. By year’s end, two other MPD officers who responded to the Capitol assault also would kill themselves: Kyle deFreytag and Gunther Hashida.

Charm has an occasional contrary concomitant, heartlessness. The virtuoso is so pleased by the way he produces his effects that he disregards the audience. Once Dorothy Thompson came in to see FDR after a comparatively long period of having been snubbed by the White House—although she had deserted Wilkie for Roosevelt during the campaign just concluded, and as a result had been fired from The New York Herald Tribune, the best job she ever had. Roosevelt greeted her with the remark, "Dorothy, you lost your job, but I kept mine—ha, ha!

Shifting the frame only slightly, the choice of a theory from among the range of always ideologically founded theories is itself necessarily ideologically motivated. Positioning is unavoidable; positioning is the result of choice from among a range of possibilities; that choice is socially meaningful - it is ideological.

The fact is, nobody has the faintest idea of what is going to happen next year, next week, or even tomorrow. If you hope to get anywhere as a speculator, you must get out of the habit of listening to forecasts. It is of the utmost importance that you never take economists, market advisers, or other financial oracles seriously.

Claiming devotion to Jesus is the ultimate evangelical argument stopper.

Driving across the bumpy steppe, we are thrown up to the canvas roof over the truck and hold on to the framework of the flatbed for all we are worth. We

True decadence involves taking nothing too seriously,

The survivors of the last war were tasked to become the admonishing emissaries of those who had perished on the battlefields, sentenced to eternal silence. This

The sky is glowing over Stalingrad. Greyish-white smoke billows from the ground; flames shoot high into the sky in between. The long probing fingers of the searchlights tear at the half-darkness of the breaking day. There must be a lot of aircraft up. Bombs are ceaselessly raining down on a city that has been condemned to death. The explosions merge into one another, creating a devastating inferno.

Mr. Roosevelt liked to be liked. He courted and wooed people. He had good taste, an affable disposition, and profound delight in people and human relationships. This was probably the single most revealing of all his characteristics; it was both a strength and a weakness, and is a clue to much. To want to be liked by everybody does not merely mean amiability; it connotes will to power, for the obvious reason that if the process is carried on long enough and enough people like the person, his power eventually becomes infinite and universal. Conversely, any man with great will to power and sense of historical mission, like Roosevelt, not only likes to be liked; he has to be liked, in order to feed his ego. But FDR went beyond this; he wanted to be liked not only by contemporaries on as broad a scale as possible, but by posterity. This, among others, is one reason for his collector's instinct. He collected himself—for history. He wanted to be spoken of well by succeeding generations, which means that he had the typical great man's wish for immortality, and hence—as we shall see in a subsequent chapter—he preserved everything about himself that might be of the slightest interest to historians. His passion for collecting and cataloguing is also a suggestive indication of his optimism. He was quite content to put absolutely everything on the record, without fear of what the world verdict of history would be.

Behind my office, to the south-east, was Police Headquarters, and I imagined all the good hard work that was being done there to crack down on Berlin's crime. Villainies like speaking disrespectfully of the Führer, displaying a 'Sold Out' sign in your butcher's shop window, not giving the Hitler Salute, and homosexuality. That was Berlin under the National Socialist Government: a big, haunted house with dark corners, gloomy staircases, sinister cellars, locked rooms and a whole attic full of poltergeists on the loose, throwing books, banging doors, breaking glass, shouting in the night and generally scaring the owners so badly that there were times when they were ready to sell up and get out. But most of the time they just stopped up their ears, covered their blackened eyes and tried to pretend that there was nothing wrong. Cowed with fear, they spoke very little, ignoring the carpet moving underneath their feet, and their laughter was the thin, nervous kind that always accompanies the boss's little joke.

Every day at precisely noon a fellow turns up on a busy street corner with a green flag and a bugle. He waves the flag, blows a few notes on the bugle, utters a mysterious incantation, and goes away. A cop, observing this exercise over a period of weeks, finally gets overwhelmed by curiosity. "What the hell are you doing?" asks the cop. "Keeping giraffes away," says the fellow. The cop says, "But there are no giraffes around here." The fellow says, "Doing a good job, ain't I?

A secretor is somebody whose blood type appears in his or her body fluids as well as in the blood itself—handy if all you’ve got is a sweaty shirt or, as in this case, semen. A nonsecretor’s blood type can only be ascertained through the blood.

the Zurich Axioms are about the world of money, and that is a world of human events. Human events absolutely cannot be predicted, by any method, by anybody. One of the traps money-world prophets fall into is that they forget they are dealing with human behavior.

We walk quietly beside the vehicles, in order to keep warm. I have to rub my eyes continually—the constant staring into the fog and the cutting cold is affecting my sight. Whenever we watch we imagine figures in front of us and clutch our weapons that much more tightly.

The concierge was a snapper who was over the hill and down a disused mine-shaft. Her hair was every bit as natural as a parade goose-stepping down the Wilhelmstrasse, and she'd evidently been wearing a boxing-glove when she's applied the crimson lipstick to her paperclip of a mouth.

We are now standing on top of a small hill and can see something of the city. More black smoke and smouldering fires—a terrible sight, and we can feel Stalingrad’s hot breath. This must be how Rome looked after Nero put it to the torch The only difference is that here the inferno is made worse by the screaming shells and lethal explosions, increasing the madness and giving the onlooker the impression that he’s witnessing the end of the world. The further we penetrate into the city, the closer the shells fall around us. ‘The usual evening blessing from Ivan,’ remarks the medic.

Sergeant Powell would never understand what compelled Henry Gunther to rise up and charge the enemy. Gunther had never been seduced by dreams of battlefield glory. He had lost his sergeant’s stripes and been broken to private for urging a friend, in a censored letter, to stay out of the war. His pointless gesture might have been a last desperate effort to eradicate the stain. Whatever the impulse, Gunther kept advancing, bayonet fixed. The German gunners reluctantly fired a five-round burst. Gunther was struck in the left temple and died instantly. The time was 10:59 A.M. General Pershing’s order of the day would record Henry

There was much more she would have liked to tell her brother. But within a few months, she would be able to tell him in person. When he learned of the attack on the airship, nothing would stop Archimedes and his wife from coming. But at least they would fly to the Red City instead of Krakentown, where he might be recognized as the smuggler Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste. One day, she might write a story inspired by that part of his career. She would call it The Idiot Smuggler Who Destroyed the Horde Rebellion’s War Machines and Changed His Name to Avoid the Rebel Assassins. Zenobia would take pity on the idiot’s sister and leave her out of the tale. She

their home was the front-line trench or the foxhole—there, on the main battle line, where day after day they worried about their survival and killed their enemies in order to avoid being killed; where each man fought as a unit but in the end had to rely upon himself; where the earth around them often turned into a burning hell; where they sensed the ice-cold touch of death when a glowing hot splinter or a fizzing bullet searched out their living bodies; where the shredded corpses of their enemy were heaped in front of them; and where the piercing screams of the wounded would mix with the barely audible calls of the dying, touching them as they cowered deep within the ground and pursuing them in their nightmares. There

Berlín. Yo adoraba esta vieja ciudad. Pero eso fue antes de que se mirara en su propio reflejo y le diera por llevar unos corsés tan ajustados que apenas podía respirar. Yo adoraba las filosofías fáciles y despreocupadas, el jazz barato, los cabarés vulgares y todos los demás excesos culturales que caracterizaron los años del Weimar y que hicieron de Berlín una de las ciudades más apasionantes del mundo.

Al Hershey had sent me a long letter from Cold Spring Harbor summarizing the recently completed experiments by which he and Martha Chase established that a key feature of the infection of a bacterium by a phage was the injection of the viral DNA into the host bacterium. Most important, very little protein entered the bacterium. Their experiment was thus a powerful new proof that DNA is the primary genetic material. Nonetheless, almost no one in the audience of over four hundred microbiologists seemed interested as I read long sections of Hershey’s letter. Obvious exceptions were André Lwoff, Seymour Benzer, and Gunther Stent, all briefly over from Paris. They knew that Hershey’s experiments were not trivial and that from then on everyone was going to place more emphasis on DNA. To most of the spectators, however, Hershey’s name carried no weight.

Πώς να περιγράψει κανείς το απερίγραπτο; Πώς μπορείς να μιλήσεις για κάτι που σε άφησε άφωνο από τρόμο; Υπάρχουν άλλοι, πολύ πιο ευφραδείς, που στάθηκαν ανίκανοι να βρουν τις κατάλληλες λέξεις, Πρόκειται για την σιωπή που γεννάει η ντροπή, αφού ακόμα και οι αθώοι είναι ένοχοι. Στερούμενος τα δικαιώματά του, ο άνθρωπος ξαναγίνεται ζώο. Οι πεινασμένοι κλέβουν απ' τους πεινασμένους. Η προσωπική επιβίωση αποτελεί την μόνη έγνοια. Μια έγνοια που καταπατά, ή και διαγράφει ακόμα, το οποιοδήποτε βίωμα. Σκοπός του Νταχάου ήταν να δουλεύεις μέχρι να καταστρέψεις την πνευματική σου υπόσταση. Ο θάνατος ήταν ένα αναπάντεχο υποπροϊόν. Για να επιβιώσεις εσύ, οι άλλοι έπρεπε να υποφέρουν για λογαριασμό σου. Όταν χτυπούσαν ή λιντσάριζαν κάποιον άλλο, εσύ ήσουν ασφαλής -έστω και για λίγο. Άλλοτε πάλι, για μερικές μέρες, έτρωγες την μερίδα του διπλανού σου, που είχε πεθάνει στον ύπνο του.

The soldiers look like dirty brown lumps of clay glued on to the white camouflaged tanks as, for the first time, I see our enemies in front of me. A faint shudder goes through my body. If they get me, everything is over, because we have often heard in gruesome detail what they do to German soldiers. There is a mixture of excitement, fright and rebelliousness about what could be happening to us. My mouth is dry and I grip my carbine more tightly.

Once, in front of an assembled group, he asked a tank grenadier, who had only been with us three days, if he had been able to ‘integrate’ himself yet. The young soldier, who came from Upper Silesia, and spoke German in a rather humorous and twisted form, looked at the Old Man in a rather quizzical manner, but then, seemingly having understood, answered, ‘I don’t know yet, Herr Oberleitnand!’ We could see that the Old Man had not expected this answer. He therefore asked: ‘Why not? You’ve been here with us for three days!’ ‘Jawoll, Herr Oberleitnand!’ answered the man. ‘But I only got my first black crap tablet two hours ago!’ The entire group just howled with laughter! The soldier thought the Old Man had asked him if the charcoal tablets had helped his diarrhoea. The Old Man laughed with us of course, but he didn’t realise that we were laughing over the delightfully down-to-earth answer to the posh way the question was put to him. The Old Man had of course only wanted to know if the soldier had found himself at ease in our group.

Gen. Helmuth von Moltke, Chief of the German General Staff[1] from 1857 until his retirement in 1888, often related a story to junior members of his staff that described the essence of the German system of command. Following a battle, Prince Frederick Karl took a major aside and proceeded to reprimand the young officer for a tactical mistake. The major responded that he was following an order issued to him from a superior officer, which constituted the word of the king himself. The prince responded in kind, “‘His Majesty made you a major because he believed you would know when not to obey his orders.’”[2]

The train company does not have that much to carry, but the rest of us are loaded down like pack animals—we carry the full kit with blanket and ground sheet, steel helmet and heavy winter coat thrown over it. We have a full ammunition pouch on the belt, on our backs the kitbag with the field canteen, and on the other side the folded entrenching tool. A gas mask is slung around our necks, resting on the chest, and the heavy rifle swings back and forth from its strap round the neck. Lastly, a ditty bag is carried in one hand, filled with clean socks, underwear and similar items. The whole lot weighs about 40lb.

the days and weeks in which we distraught Germans tried to escape the Stalingrad encirclement, finally fleeing headlong across the frozen Don under the shattering live fire from the approaching one hundred Russian tanks. This incident ended a never-to-be-forgotten experience as, almost deafened from the roar of the exploding shells and the incessant clatter of tracks, and blinded by the flashing close behind us, we made our way over mountains of emaciated corpses and wounded comrades whose blood stained the snow red, to the safety of the other bank of the Don, which, the day before, had seemed so peaceful covered in a mantle of fresh snow.

In the distance I can see a group of figures marching in a long row. As they come closer I can see that they are mostly women, loaded down with bundles. Some men are walking along carrying nothing. Hans Weichert gets annoyed with the men for allowing the women to carry the heavy loads while they just walk along beside them. Our wagon chief, the Obergefreiter, explains: ‘In this part of Russia that’s normal. The pajenkas, the girls, and the mattkas, the mothers or women, are from childhood taught to do what the pan, or man, tells them to do. The men are real layabouts: they decide what’s to be done. Whenever you see them they are always walking alongside the women. Indoors they are usually to be found lying on the clay ovens asleep. Nowadays you mostly see only old men—all the youngsters have gone off to the war.

Elizabeth’s concern that Ian might insult them, either intentionally or otherwise, soon gave way to admiration and then to helpless amusement as he sat for the next half-hour, charming them all with an occasional lazy smile or interjecting a gallant compliment, while they spent the entire time debating whether to sell the chocolates being donated by Gunther’s for $5 or $6 per box. Despite Ian’s outwardly bland demeanor, Elizabeth waited uneasily for him to say he’d buy the damned cartload of chocolates for $10 apiece, if it would get them on to the next problem, which she knew was what he was dying to say. But she needn’t have worried, for he continued to positively exude pleasant interest. Four times, the committee paused to solicit his advice; four times, he smilingly made excellent suggestions; four times, they ignored what he suggested. And four times, he seemed not to mind in the least or even notice. Making a mental note to thank him profusely for his incredible forbearance, Elizabeth kept her attention on her guests and the discussion, until she inadvertently glanced in his direction, and her breath caught. Seated on the opposite side of the gathering from her, he was now leaning back in his chair, his left ankle propped atop his right knee, and despite his apparent absorption in the topic being discussed, his heavy-lidded gaze was roving meaningfully over her breasts. One look at the smile tugging at his lips and Elizabeth realized that he wanted her to know it. Obviously he’d decided that both she and he were wasting their time with the committee, and he was playing an amusing game designed to either divert her or discomfit her entirely, she wasn’t certain which. Elizabeth drew a deep breath, ready to blast a warning look at him, and his gaze lifted slowly from her gently heaving bosom, traveled lazily up her throat, paused at her lips, and then lifted to her narrowed eyes. Her quelling glance earned her nothing but a slight, challenging lift of his brows and a decidedly sensual smile, before his gaze reversed and began a lazy trip downward again. Lady Wiltshire’s voice rose, and she said for the second time, “Lady Thornton, what do you think?” Elizabeth snapped her gaze from her provoking husband to Lady Wiltshire. “I-I agree,” she said without the slightest idea of what she was agreeing with. For the next five minutes, she resisted the tug of Ian’s caressing gaze, firmly refusing to even glance his way, but when the committee reembarked on the chocolate issue again, she stole a look at him. The moment she did, he captured her gaze, holding it, while he, with an outward appearance of a man in thoughtful contemplation of some weighty problem, absently rubbed his forefinger against his mouth, his elbow propped on the arm of his chair. Elizabeth’s body responded to the caress he was offering her as if his lips were actually on hers, and she drew a long, steadying breath as he deliberately let his eyes slide to her breasts again. He knew exactly what his gaze was doing to her, and Elizabeth was thoroughly irate at her inability to ignore its effect. The committee departed on schedule a half-hour later amid reminders that the next meeting would be held at Lady Wiltshire’s house. Before the door closed behind them, Elizabeth rounded on her grinning, impenitent husband in the drawing room. “You wretch!” she exclaimed. “How could you?” she demanded, but in the midst of her indignant protest, Ian shoved his hands into her hair, turned her face up, and smothered her words with a ravenous kiss. “I haven’t forgiven you,” she warned him in bed an hour later, her cheek against his chest. Laughter, rich and deep, rumbled beneath her ear. “No?” “Absolutely not. I’ll repay you if it’s the last thing I do.” “I think you already have,” he said huskily, deliberately misunderstanding her meaning.