Hae In Quotes

Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it, But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit.

Athena." "Kenji yah, mi an hae (sorry)." "Algettso (I understand). Bogoshipda (I miss you)." "Na do (me too)." "Yun lang alam ko, hehe. Hindi na ako makapag construct ng sentence sa Korean. Gawa mo?" "Wala naka higa lang. Ikaw?" "Eto.. iniisip ka. Lumilipad yung kukote ko papunta sayo.

So winners, Hae-Joo proposed, are the real losers because they learn nothing? What, then, are losers? Winners?

maa tujhe salaam pher lete hai nazar jis waqt bete or bahu.. ajnabi apne hi ghar me hae ban jati hai maaa..

...and there, in the background, the brite spring sky's sediment had sunk to a dark band of blue. Ah, it mesmerized me...like the snow had done. All the woe of the words, "I am" seemed dissolved there, painlessly, peacefully. Hae-Joo announced, "The Ocean.

You’re after secrets, aren’t you? Just like him,” Mee-Hae says.

Evidence of radioactive rain destroying a city seventy thousand years ago,” Mee-Hae answers.

Now you’re interested. After three years? No wonder you even found me here!” says Mee-Hae. “I’m sure I was harder to find than the tea I’m holding.

I’m guessing something happened?” Mee-Hae says, busying herself with make-the-sofa-sittable and turn-the-room-walkable for a sudden guest.

Mee-Hae Ra isn’t a monk; she’s never been one.

You are wrong, Yuan,” Mee-Hae says, half-worried and half-angry, her voice suddenly quivering. “He wanted to make you work. With or without him.

My nightmares are out of control. The thoughts during my dreams,” Mee-Hae says, leaning against his chest.

I know what war looks like, Yuan.” Mee-Hae gazes into the forest from the balcony. Her palm traces her lower belly where her womb should be, and her face creases as if she is in physical pain.

The major difference between a relationship and a novel draft is that you hae control over your novel's outcome.

I want answers, Yuan,” she says. “Come to Lotus Lodge. I’m getting a team together.” “Who else?” Mee-Hae asks. “You first.” “Let me guess, you want me to call the others.

Please, scan your CRAB first before touching the key. For your own safety. From what, you ask? It’s a surprise. Enter without scanning if you want to find out. --Mee-Hae Ra

They didn’t even bring me some tea as a courtesy when they came.' --Mee-Hae Ra

Ten years is a blink for a seventy-year-old High Grade.' --Mee-Hae Ra

And there rests him—the Mesmerizer, frozen in one of his rarest smiles, right beside Mee-Hae. His hair is a darker shade of blond in the photos, as it was back then, and his eyes blue like the clearest sky.

Mee-Hae Ra. Pointy face, angled eyes; skin warmed after years of living in the south; blue T-shirt, jean shorts, and CRAB in her left wrist. Nothing has changed, except the short, dark-red hair—it was black during the war.

Mee-Hae stops a foot away from him, who is wrapped in his decades-old, dark shawl that should be torn and faded by now, but it isn’t, thanks to the technology that repairs one molecule at a time if you have the budget for it.

Oh, yes, busy was the word. Always.” Mee-Hae nods. “I remember how much scared he was of not having enough time for all he wanted to do, for all he wanted to … achieve.

Don’t worry about my pills. It’s common in this era. Thoughts are powerful,” Mee-Hae whispers in response. “Just cut the negative ones,” the Monk says.

Mee-Hae utters annihilated so carefully as if someone might hear, as if it’s a cautiously chosen word and not spoken as a part of a casual description.

Mai tu sarie amn, tu hae'si, tu kii'rna dae. There is nothing as painful, or as simple, as doing what is right.

Don’t heal me, Yuan. I need to learn to live on my own,” Mee-Hae mutters, but she doesn’t push his hand away. She hasn’t felt this pain-free for so long … she just wants to enjoy this for a moment or two longer.

Rewrites history, huh?” Mee-Hae gazes at him. The sparkles in her eyes are those of an archaeologist who is living in a forest near her latest discovered underwater civilization. “The last Ice Age was supposed to be twelve thousand years ago.

There are signs of war. The radioactive rain wasn’t natural. I believe they were annihilated.” Mee-Hae utters annihilated so carefully as if someone might hear, as if it’s a cautiously chosen word and not spoken as a part of a casual description.

I just don’t care enough, Yuan. Let’s say, throwing away the photos or keeping them means the same to me. I’m busy with something more meaningful, and I don’t have time to think about what I should throw out or not,” Mee-Hae says.

رات یوں دل میں تری کھوئی ہوئی یاد آئی جیسے ویرانے میں چپکے ے بہار آجائے جیسے صحراؤں میں ہولے سے چلے بادِ نسیم جیسے بیمار کو بے وجہ قرار آجائے

What do you believe, Ra? I’ll believe whatever you say.” The Monk turns at her, his complete attention now at her eyes. Mee-Hae doesn’t reply for a long time. A High Grade’s words have weight; she must now think through what leaves her lips.

You hae only one thing you may control tonight - whether to use your safe word or not. Otherwise all the decisions, all the choices, are mine. Everything is in my hands. (Jake to Kallie)

Daft Wullie had raised a finger. 'Point o' order, Rob,' he said, 'but it was a wee bittie hurtful there for you to say I dinna hae the brains of a beetle...' Rob hesitated, but only for a moment. 'Aye, Daft Wullie, ye are right in whut ye say. It was unricht o' me to say that. It was the heat o' the moment, an' I am full sorry for it. As I stand here before ye now, I will say: Daft Wullie, ye DO hae the brains o' a beetle, an' I'll fight any scunner who says different!

Mee-Hae, like the perfect, gentle, and understanding woman from contemporary books of the Old World, lets the Monk avoid her crucial question, the question she should never have overlooked. The question even the Monk will regret not answering right now, right here, not only for her sake but also for his own.

Some hae meat that canna eat, And some could eat that want it. We hae meat, and we can eat, And so may God be thankit. Amen.

He tried to make me work. With him,” he says truthfully, just as a war hero, the owner of a strong voice, should. “You are wrong, Yuan,” Mee-Hae says, half-worried and half-angry, her voice suddenly quivering. “He wanted to make you work. With or without him.” “I have to stop him,” the Monk says. “Am I the bait?

For a woman, who once was a yearning of the Mesmerizer, anything is possible.

But if you are really looking for it, will you read the Devil’s Book?

But who knows? For a woman, who once was a yearning of the Mesmerizer, anything is possible.

Your hair is greying. Is it a new fashion? And what’s with the laugh lines?

You keep an ancient lock with a scanner while the balcony is open?” he asks. “Who will steal from an archeologist who gets no gold and camps temporarily in a forest?” Mee-Hae replies. “Ten years doesn’t sound temporary.” “Ten years is a blink for a seventy-year-old High Grade,” Mee-Hae says. “But you’re avoiding my question, Yagmur. Don’t think I didn’t notice.

وقفِ حرمان و یاس رہتا ہے دل ہے، اکثر اداس رہتا ہے تم تو غم دے کے بھول جاتے ہو مجھ کو احسان کا پاس رہتا ہے

Hae you got everything you need in the shape of-of tea?

It’s not him,” the Monk says in a determined voice. “Because he never hides knowledge?” “Because he’s busy seeking knowledge,” the Monk says. “Oh, yes, busy was the word. Always.” Mee-Hae nods. “I remember how much scared he was of not having enough time for all he wanted to do, for all he wanted to … achieve.” After several more moments of gazing at nothing in particular into the forest, she suddenly faces the Monk. “I want answers, Yuan,” she says.

It's a laughable lock—one that you would use only to guard a graveyard. Not that anyone would trouble themselves invading a timber hut in a mangrove forest farther away from the Bay of Bengal. Still, how can someone live with a lock like that? Made of ancient iron, reeking of rust. It would need a primordial key to be twisted and turned, going through several moments of mechanical trouble until the old lock opens. Good luck if you can do that without breaking the key. Oh! The key … Well, the owner of the hut has left the key right beside the lock, including instructions. The Monk, Yuan Yagmur—revealing his muscled arms from under his wide, dark shawl—takes the note (the one with instructions): Please, scan your CRAB first before touching the key. For your own safety. From what, you ask? It’s a surprise. Enter without scanning if you want to find out. —Mee-Hae Ra

«Excudent alii spirantia mollius aera (credo equidem), vivos ducent de marmore vultus, orabunt causas melius, caelique meatus describent radio et surgentia sidera dicent: tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento (hae tibi erunt artes), pacisque imponere morem, parcere subiectis et debellare superbos» "Others will hammer out more gently breathing bronzes, I believe so truly they will draw living expressions from marble, they will plead causes better and they will map with a compass the movements of the sky and will tell of rising stars: You, oh Roman, remember to rule the nations with authority (these will be your arts), and to impose a rule of peace, to spare the vanquished and to eradicate the arrogant

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled; Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your glory bed, Or to victory.

Some hae meat and canna eat, and some wad eat that want it. But we hae meat, and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit.

Deed, I aye had eneuch adu to du the thing I had to du, no to say the thing 'at naebody wad du but mysel'. I hae had nae leisur' for feelin's an' that," insisted Miss Horn.

But if you knew about this…conspiracy, why did you cooperate with it? Why did you allow Hae-Joo Im to get so close to you? Why does any martyr cooperate with his judases? Tell me. We see a game beyond the endgame… But to what end? Some future…revolution? It can never succeed. As Seneca warned Nero: No matter how many of us you kill, you will never kill your successor.

does my Anerew's hert guid to hae a crack wi' ane 'at kens something o' what the Maister wad be at. Mony ane 'll ca' him Lord, but feow 'ill tak the trible to ken what he wad hae o' them.

Well, Hae-Joo probed, what did I do to relax? I play Go against my sony, I said. "To relax?" he responded, incredulous. "Who wins, you or the sony?" The sony, I answered, or how would I ever improve? So winners, Hae-Joo proposed, are the real losers because they learn nothing? What, then, are losers? Winners? I said, If losers can xploit what their adversaries teach them, yes, losers can become winners in the long term.

But if you knew about this... conspiracy, why did you cooperate with it? Why did you allow Hae-Joo Im to get so close to you? Why does any martyr cooperate with his judases? Tell me. We see an end beyond the endgame.

You talked about some stones you found a while ago,” he says. “Three years.” Mee-Hae quickly turns around to face him, holding her unwashed panties. From this close, they smell prominently feminine to the Monk’s highly evolved nose. Mee-Hae Ra throws them with her faultless aim to a basket twenty feet away; she’ll have to wash them in the river later. “Your a while ago is actually three years,” she says. “You didn’t pay attention then. I wonder what happened? You even brought the rarest tea on the planet!” She throws a piercing gaze at him. Her pouty lips make her look angry. Abandoning her cleaning, she approaches the balcony, holding the tea package. “It looks hand-procured,” she mutters. “By any chance, did you pluck it yourself?” She looks at the Monk and already gets the answer that a modest monk won’t provide.

دل رہینِ غمِ جہاں ہے آج ہر نَفَس تشنہء فغاں ہے آج سخت ویراں ہے محفلِ ہستی اے غمِ دوست! تُو کہاں ہے آج

First is a poem, a ballad, out of Scotland. You may say there is no king in it, and of course there isn't, which is what makes it so sad. The last line of the third verse, 'O he might hae been a king' is so sad that I don't like to look at it with both eyes at once.

I. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie! II. Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour: See approach proud Edward's pow'r-- Chains and slaverie! III. Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave! Let him turn and flee! IV. Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me! V. By oppression's woes and pains! By our sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! VI. Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!-- Let us do or die!

But if you knew about this…conspiracy, why did you cooperate with it? Why did you allow Hae-Joo Im to get so close to you? Why does any martyr cooperate with his judases? Tell me. We see a game beyond the endgame...As Seneca warned Nero: No matter how many of us you kill, you will never kill your successor.

I maun hae buiks. I wad get the newspapers whiles, but no aften, for they’re a sair loss o’ precious time. Ye see they tell ye things afore they’re sure, an’ ye hae to spen’ yer time the day readin’ what ye’ll hae to spen’ yer time the morn readin’ oot again; an’ ye may as weel bide till the thing’s sattled a wee.

We are ever seeking more certainty, more hope,” Rhiada replied at last, his voice humming, an echo of a song in it. “The less we hae, the more we wish for it. But were times none so dire as these, were life none so fragile, we would perhaps nae hold to it so, like a shining light in the midst of darkness. The greater the darkness, the more precious that hope becomes. Were our lives, our homes, our country, our freedoms, our princess—were these none so dear to us, we would nae risk it all to keep them. Men donnae die fer something they donnae believe in. Because we risk it, then it must be worth it in the end. Should that no’ give us hope?

فیض ان کو ہے تقاضائے وفا ہم سے جنہیں آشنا کے نام سے پیارا ہے بیگانے کا نام

bees that hae honey in their mouths hae stings in their tails,

But bees that hae honey in their mouths hae stings in their tails, aye?’ He

hae tibi erunt artes; pacisque imponere morem, parcere subiectis, et debellare superbos.

All the woe of the words “I am” seemed dissolved there, painlessly, peacefully. Hae-Joo announced, “The ocean.

Who wins, you or the sony?” The sony, I answered, or how would I ever improve? So winners, Hae-Joo proposed, are the real losers because they learn nothing? What, then, are losers? Winners?

Hae tibi erunt artes - pacisque imponere morem, Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos" "These shall be your arts, to set forth the law of peace, to spare the conquered, and to subdue the proud.

There’s ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors, A’ future ages; Now moths deform in shapeless tatters, Their unknown pages.

if you’re Asian, people think you’re good and quiet and expect you to stay out of the way. To know your place. Unless you look like you’re in a gang. Then all bets are off. Hae Dang talks a lot about that too.

But if you knew about this... conspiracy, why did you cooperate with it? Why did you allow Hae-Joo Im to get so close to you? Why does any martyr cooperate with his judases? Tell me. We see an end beyond the endgame. ...

Anyone who has ever canoed on the upper Missouri River knows what a welcome sight a grove of cottonoods can be. They provide shade, shelter, and fuel. For Indian ponies, they provide food. For the Corps of Discovery, they provided wheels, wagons, and canoes. Pioneering Lewis and Clark scholar Paul Russell Cutright pays the cottonwoods an appropriate tribute: 'Of all the wetern trees it contributed more to the success of the Expedition than any other. Lewis and Clark were men of great talent and resourcefulness, masters of ingenuity and improvisation. Though we think it probable that they would hae successfully crossed the continent without the cottonwood, don't as us how!

...I discovered I'm having a girl. And I hae spent a good portion of the last few weeks thinking about the kind f woman I'd like to see her become and the lessons I'd like to impart to her. Somewhere along the line, I decided it doesn't matter to me what type of woman she is, as much as what type of woman she is not. I never ever want her to become the type of woman who, suffocated by a screwed up society, fears herself, her desires, her ambitions, her impulses, her potential power.

—Bueno —tanteó Hae-Joo—, ¿qué haces para relajarte? —Jugar al go con el sony —dije. —¿Para relajarte? —replicó incrédulo—. ¿Y quién gana, tú o el sony? —El sony —respondí—. ¿Cómo si no iba a mejorar? —O sea, que los ganadores —razonó Hae-Joo—, ¿son, en realidad, los perdedores, porque no aprenden nada nuevo? Entonces, ¿qué son los perdedores? ¿Ganadores? Yo no sabía si hablaba en serio. —Si los perdedores consiguen sacar partido de lo que les enseñan sus adversarios, entonces sí, los perdedores, a la larga, pueden ser los ganadores.

Comin thro' the Rye" [First Setting] Comin thro' the rye, poor body, Comin thro' the rye, She draigl't a' her petticoatie Comin thro' the rye. [CHORUS.] Oh Jenny 's a' weet poor body Jenny 's seldom dry, She draigl't a' her petticoatie Comin thro' the rye. Gin a body meet a body Comin thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body — Need a body cry. Oh Jenny 's a' weet, &c. Gin a body meet a body Comin thro' the glen; Gin a body kiss a body — Need the warld ken! Oh Jenny 's a' weet, &c. [Second Setting] Gin a body meet a body, comin thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry; Ilka body has a body, ne'er a ane hae I; But a' the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I. Gin a body meet a body, comin frae the well, Gin a body kiss a body, need a body tell; Ilka body has a body, ne'er a ane hae I, But a the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I. Gin a body meet a body, comin frae the town, Gin a body kiss a body, need a body gloom; Ilka Jenny has her Jockey, ne'er a ane hae I, But a' the lads they loe me, and what the waur am I.

The two last were in full tide of spirits, and the Baron rallied in his way our hero upon the handsome figure which his new dress displayed to advantage. 'If you have any design upon the heart of a bonny Scottish lassie, I would premonish you when you address her to remember the words of Virgilius: "Nunc insanus amor duri me Martis in armis, Tela inter media atque adversos detinet hostes." Whilk verses Robertson of Struan, Chief of the clan Donnochy, unless the claims of Lude ought to be preferred primo loco, has thus elegantly rendered: "For cruel love has gartan'd low my leg, And clad my hurdies in a philabeg." Although indeed ye wear the trews, a garment whilk I approve most of the two, as more ancient and seemly.' 'Or rather,' said Fergus, 'hear my song: "She wadna hae a Lowland laird, Nor be an English lady; But she's away with Duncan Græme, And he's rowed her in his plaidy.

That's richt. When we were campaignin' wi' Marlborough oor lads had mony time to sleep wi' the canon dirlin' aboot them. Ye get us'd to't, as Annalpa says aboot bein' a weedow woman. And if ye hae noticed it, Coont, there's nae people mair adapted for fechtin' under difeeculties than oor ane; that's what maks the Scots the finest sogers in the warld. It's the build o them, Lowlan' or Hielan', the breed o' them; the dour hard character o' their country and their mainner o' leevin'. We gied the English a fleg at the 'Forty-five,' didnae we? That was where the tartan cam' in: man, there's naethin' like us!

Blaming fatness for heart disease is a lot like blaming yellow teeth for lung cancer, rather than considering the possibility that smoking might play a role in both. And telling people they need to lose weight is a lot like telling someone with pneumonia to stop coughing so much—it may not be possible and won’t make the disease go away.

We dinna hear 'at the Saviour himsel' ever sae muckle as smiled," said he. "Weel, that wad hae been little wonner, wi' what he had upo' 'm. But I'm nae sure that he didna, for a' that. Fowk disna aye tell whan a body lauchs. I'm thinkin' gin ane o' the bairnies that he took upo' 's knee,-- an' he was ill-pleased wi' them 'at wad hae sheued them awa'-- gin ane o' them had hauden up his wee timmer horsie, wi' a broken leg, he wadna hae wrocht a miracle maybe, I daursay, but he wad hae smilet, or maybe lauchen a wee, and he wad hae men't the leg some gait or ither to please the bairnie. And gin 't had been me, I wad raither hae had the men'in o' 's twa han's, wi' a knife to help them maybe, nor twenty miracles upo' 't.

Excudent alii spirantia mollius aera, credo equidem, vivos ducent de marmore voltus, orabunt causas melius, caelique meatus describent radio, et surgentia sidera dicent: tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento; hae tibi erunt artes; pacisque imponere morem, parcere subiectis, et debellare superbos.” “The Greeks shape bronze statues so real they seem to breathe, And carve cold marble until it almost comes to life. The Greeks compose great orations, and measure The heavens so well they can predict the rising of the stars. But you, Romans, remember your great arts; To govern the peoples with authority, To establish peace under the rule of law, To conquer the mighty, and show them mercy once they are conquered." -Virgil, Aeneid VI, 847-853” ― Virgil

But maintaining the primacy of the individual-lifestyle focus—without being transparent about larger influences—is an affront to people living in disadvantage, as it reduces their ill health to poor “choices”and blames them, all the while contributing to the stigma and judgmental thinking that fuels their oppression, worsens their health, and expands the health divide between the advantaged and disadvantaged.

Hearing may make shorter intuitive leaps than sight, but it too is subject to illusions. The most pleasant of these are 'mondegreens,' named by the author Sylvia Wright from her youthful mishearing of the Scottish ballad that actually says, 'They hae slain the Earl o' Moray / and they layd him on the green'--not, alas, 'the Lady Mondegreen.' Children, with their relaxed expectations for logic, are a rich source of these (pledging allegiance to 'one Asian in the vestibule, with little tea and just rice for all'), but everyone has the talent to infer the ridiculous from the inaudible--and, what's more, to believe in it. Here, at least, we do behave like computers, in that our voice-recognition software has little regard for probability but boldly assumes we live in a world of surrealist poets. We are certain that Mick Jagger will never leave our pizza burning and that the Shadow knows what evil lurks in the hot cement.

فکرِ دلداریٔ گلزار کروں یا نہ کروں ذکرِ مرغانِ گرفتار کروں یا نہ کروں قصۂ سازشِ اغیار کہوں یا نہ کہوں شکوۂ یارِ طرحدار کروں یا نہ کروں جانے کا وضع ہے اب رسمِ وفا کی اے دل وضعِ دیریہ پہ اسرار کروں یا نہ کروں جانے کس رنگ میں تفسیر کریں اہلِ ہوس مدحِ زلف و لب و رخسار کروں یا نہ کروں یوں بہار آئی ہے امسال کہ گلشن میں صبا پوچھتی ہے گزر اس بار کروں یا نہ کروں گویا اس سوچ میں ہے دل میں لہو بھر کے گلاب دامن و جیب کو گلنار کروں یا نہ کروں ہے فقط مرغِ غزل خواں کہ کسے جسے فکر نہیں معتدل گرمیٔ گفتار کروں یا نہ کروں

Many factors other than your size, fat, and muscle tissue figure in resting metabolism. Some are genetic and immutable. You may have been born with the ability to burn a lot of energy quickly and effortlessly, while others have what’s called a “sluggish metabolism”and don’t use energy at a very fast rate. It’s interesting to consider the cultural value judgment in using the term “sluggish”; from a scientific perspective, the person with a slower metabolism is much more efficient, a trait that would have been highly prized in earlier times when food was harder to come by.

Along with explosive and tactical training, our training on small arms began. The NCO instructors conducted the weapons training but they were not comfortable dealing with university students. Often tricky situations would arise. Two examples would illustrate the nature of the problem. In the Pakistan Army, soldiers of the East Bengal Regiment were taught their craft in Roman Urdu. The NCOs tried to teach us just as they were taught. They began with kholna-jorna (stripping and assembling). Our NCO instructor started the class by saying "Iss purza ko kehta hae..." (this part is known as ...) in Urdu. "Why are you speaking in Urdu?" we protested immediately. "Urdu is the army’s language!" "The Pakistan Army's language! This is the Bangladesh army! No Urdu here! And if you don't speak in Bangla we won’t listen to you!" we told him. The complaint reached the Subedar Major. He was not pleased with our 'mutiny' and said the Dacca University boys don’t listen to their ustad (teacher). "You have to listen to them," he told us. We told him the same thing; why was the NCO speaking to us in Urdu? "We are Bengalis. He is from Noakhali, and if he wants he can even speak in his dialect and we’ll try our best to understand, but no Urdu!" When the Subedar Major’s intervention didn’t work, the matter went up to Khaled Mosharraf who was greatly amused. "Shalara, they are such fools! It has not yet dawned on them that they no longer have to speak in Urdu!" he said, laughing. He immediately issued an order: Henceforth there would be no more communication in Urdu.

Mỗi khi quá sức đau lòng Tôi lại nhất quyết sống cho hết một ngày. Mỗi khi thân thể đau đớn Tôi lại nhất quyết sống cho qua một chốc. (Lee Hae In)

Aye, I love tae play this game we hae where we make three places we need tae run tae before we come home again. We hold a stick, and the enemy throws at us a ball. We hit it as far as we can with the stick, and while they’re running after the ball, we have tae run tae all three places and come home again.” He

Here lies Martin Englebrodde, Ha'e mercy on my soul, Lord God, As I would do were I Lord God, And thou wert Martin Englebrodde.

On Hearing A Man Complain Of His Wife's Bad Temper Sad news tae hear that man an' wife Atween themsel's should hae sic strife; But why lay a' the blame on Bell, There's surely something in yoursel', Of which, perhaps, you're not aware, That mak's her aften flyte sae sair? Does a' your silly actions tend Her tounge an' temper to amend, When ye come in, aye looking roon Her fau'ts tae fin', ere you sit doon? If that's the method ye pursue, Tae hunt up fau'ts, you'd get anew Tae mar your peace, an' kindle strife, Had ye an angel for a wife. James Munce (1881)

Ye Micht Hae Kinder Been I wonder, John, if ye forget The lightsome days o' youth ; Nae frown was seen then on your face. Your words were love and truth. But oh ! it's sadly changed noo Frae what I once hae seen ; It grieves my heart indeed to say, Ye're no what ye hae been. My love to you is aye the same, An' shall be to the last ; 'Mid scenes like this 'twill no' be lang Till a' my cares are past. And when I'm laid aneath the clod, An' ye come hame at e'en, Remorse may force you to confess Ye micht hae kinder been. 'Mid a' the changing scenes o' life, Its trials an' its care, Without a frown I met them a'. An' tried to tak' my share. My object was to cheer you aye When ye cam' hame at e'en. But noo its hardly in my power ― Ye micht hae kinder been. Whate'er I thought wad gie offence I tried aye to remove ; To me the hardest task seemed light When tempered doun wi' love. Your failings frae the world were hid― I tried them a' to screen ; Nae wonder, noo, I often think, Ye micht hae kinder been. James Munce (1881)

It looks hand-procured,” she mutters. “By any chance, did you pluck it yourself?” She looks at the Monk and already gets the answer that a modest monk won’t provide.

Hadn’t Han Manu, with an iron in one hand and a crutch wedged under his other arm, been more alive than anyone in this world, more alive than the cancer cells that had spread to his lungs? Hadn’t my sister Hae-on—as she sat with her feet on the sofa or car seat, her knees spread with not a thought in her head, with absolutely no clue as to the inappropriateness of her actions—been warm and exquisitely alive, just like a bird about to take flight? Couldn’t each moment we’re living now be the meaning of life?

Hadn’t Han Manu, with an iron in one hand and a crutch wedged under his other arm, been more alive than anyone in this world, more alive than the cancer cells that had spread to his lungs? Hadn’t my sister Hae-on—as she sat with her feet on the sofa or car seat, her knees spread with not a thought in her head, with absolutely no clue as to the inappropriateness of her actions—been warm and exquisitely alive, just like a bird about to take flight? Couldn’t each moment we’re living now be the meaning of life?

Squeak scrambled down his body to hers and disappeared inside her gown again. She felt him squirm around between her breasts, finding a comfy spot, and then glanced up to see Payton walking beside them, staring wide-eyed at where the stoat had disappeared. Catching her eye he grinned. "I did wonder where ye kept him hidden all the time. Now I ken." "Aye, now ye ken," the Wolf growled with irritation. "So ye can stop ogling the lass. She's betrothed to another." Claray turned to him with surprise. "Nay. I'm no'. Remember? I told ye. I was betrothed to Bryson MacDonald, but he and his parents were murdered while I was still a bairn. I ha'e no betrothed now." "See. She has no' betrothed now," Payton said cheerfully, and then confided to her, "Fortunately enough, m'lady, neither ha'e I. Mayhap we should get to know each other better and see if we would no' suit each other.

Dear Lord, you are a vampire,” Eva gasped, then covered her mouth to keep the wayward thing from spouting any other unwanted revelations. Connall stiffened, his eyes shooting to her face. He had the oddest expression on his face, she noted. He looked . . . scared? Nay, apprehensive was a better description, and Eva had to wonder why he was looking so apprehensive when he was the soulless— Nay, not soulless, she reminded herself, recalling their conversation from the night before. He was not dead, nor soulless, he had assured her and he did not kill those he bit. Connall had described himself as just different and while Eva thought that was something of an understatement, she reassured herself with that information, now. He was just different, still her husband, the kind, sweet, gentle man who had treated her as if she had value, and shown her such consideration, as well as taught her passion. Nothing else had changed, she reminded herself as her head began to spin. He was the clan chief of the MacAdie, and her husband. And really, as flaws went, vampirism was much more pleasant to deal with than his being a wife beater or some such thing. Wasn’t it? “Dear Lord,” Eva breathed, shaking her head at her own thoughts, then she glanced to Connall again. He was uncharacteristically silent, his attention focused on her with an intensity that made her nervous. Her husband hadn’t said a word since she’d blurted that he was a vampire and it was making her uncomfortable enough to start searching her mind for a way to make him leave. “If you have things to do, you need not trouble yourself to wait here for me to finish eating. I can manage well enough on my own,” she murmured at last, though the food was all gone. “Tis no trouble to be with ye,” he said with a frown and there was sudden anger on his face. “Yer no a burden to me, Eva, ye ne’er ha’e been and ne’er will be. Dear God, ye saved me life this morn, woman, no once, but twice. Ha’e ye no realized yer worth yet?” “I—” Eva shook her head helplessly, confused by the tears suddenly pooling in her eyes. His vehemence was as surprising to her as the words themselves. She had saved his life that morning. She’d driven the intruder off with the log, then . . . well all right, the feeding bit wasn’t that impressive. Anyone would have done in that instance, but she had fended off the intruder. “Ye’ve courage and beauty and intelligence and are a worthy wife. E’en a king would ha’e pride in claimin’ ye to wife. I have felt nothing but pride in claimin’ ye meself.” “Despite my bein’ accident prone?” she teased with a wry twist of the lips. “Yer accidents are a result o’ tryin’ too hard to earn a place here,” he said quietly. “But ’tis only because you doonae realize ye already ha’e a place here. Yer the Lady MacAdie. My wife.” Eva swallowed, her gaze dropping from his at those words. They made her heart ache for some reason. “Why do ye look away? Do ye hate me now?” Eva glanced back up with surprise. “What?” “Now that ye know what I am?” he explained. “Will ye be wantin’ an annulment? Beggin’ to be set free? Wid ye rather a mortal man to husband? Should I take ye back to Caxton?” Eva stared at him in horror, fear clutching at her heart at the very idea of what he suggested.

I would not have the marriage annulled. You are my husband.” Connall looked torn for a minute, then said, “Why will ye keep it so when ye ken what I am?” “I . . .” She peered at him helplessly, not quite having the courage to reveal her feelings. “If ’tis out of duty, I’ll no ha’e it. I’ll no ha’e ye stayin’ with me out o’ duty and silently hatin’ me fer what I am.” “I

I should ha’e been the one to kill him,” Connall fretted. “Ye should ha’e let me do it.” Ewan shook his head. “I brought him into the world, I failed him somehow so he turned out that way, ’twas only right I took his life back.” He ran a hand wearily through his hair, and said, “I doonae ken where we went wrong. How he—” “Ye didnae go wrong, Ewan. Ye and Aileen were the best o’ parents,” Connall interrupted, then added helplessly, “Mayhap he was jest a bad seed.” “Aye. Mayhap.

Eventually we discovered Bleeker Bob's in the West Village on 118 West Third Street. One time I was there I literally tried to rip the first Iron Maiden album out of the hands of a friend of mine. [...] I was having a tug-of-war with this guy over who was gonna buy it. [...] If I hadn't won, I would've gone home and gotten my shitty little tape recorder that you have to use two fingers to push play and record on, and I would've brought that to my friend's house and held it in front of a speaker to tape the record so I'd have something to listen to until I could find another copy. Yeah, it'd sound terrible but so what? We didn't know anything else. When I hear people say, 'I hate MP3s, they sound like shit,' I'm like, 'Fuck you, you hae no idea, you first-world-problem-having motherfucker.

och, here is the gauger newly from London, and we hae Clunes making couthy with him, nae respect fur the fact it’s our labour going intae those taxes.

But really, my lord, ’tis a nerve-wracking situation and I would . . . well . . . If we could get it over?” Connall stared at her blankly, clearly taken completely by surprise at this outburst, then he frowned and echoed, “Get it over?” “Aye . . . well . . .” She forced a smile and began wringing her hands together as she explained, “Tis rather like knowing that someday soon, though you are not sure when exactly, you will have to approach the blacksmith about knocking a rotten tooth out.” “Knockin’ a rotten tooth . . .” Connall was staring at her with disbelief, though she didn’t understand why. Nor did she understand why, when he finally spoke, he sounded somewhat upset. “Me lady wife, I realize ye havenae—What on earth makes ye think—‘Knockin ’ out a rotten tooth’?” Eva bit her lip, unsure what she should say to improve the situation. He seemed rather offended by the comparison. “Well, I have never—I mean, from what I have been told, it does not sound like something to look forward to, my lord.” “What ha’e ye been told?” He sounded as if he were forcing patience. Eva considered whether she had the courage to repeat Mavis’s description and was quite sure she didn’t. It was one thing to be told that by another woman, it was quite another to repeat it to the man with the boiled sausage he intended to use on you. She shook her head helplessly, but Connall apparently wasn’t in the mood to humor her. “What’d that useless brother o’ yers tell ye?” “Oh, it was not Jonathan,” she assured him quickly. “It was my maid, Mavis . . . Well, she was not truly my maid. She worked in the kitchens, but did occasionally act as lady’s maid to me . . . Well, once or twice. She traveled to court with us because Jonathan said I needed a lady’s maid there,” Eva explained lamely, then fell silent, aware she’d been babbling. “I see, and what did this Mavis tell ye aboot what goes on between a husband and wife?” Connall was sounding a little less angry now, she noted with relief. Still, it was difficult to imagine telling him so she said instead, “Well she was describing what went on between the servants, not necessarily between husband and wife, if you see what I mean?” “Stop stalling,” he said quietly. “A wife shouldnae fear telling her husband ought.” Eva sighed at these words, it was becoming obvious that he wasn’t going to let this pass and she was going to have to repeat what Mavis had said. She was beginning to wish that she had never opened her mouth, but had simply awaited his pleasure in silent suspense. Unfortunately, she hadn’t done so. Deciding that there was nothing for it, she gathered her courage and blurted, “She said it appeared that the man and woman wrestled a bit and then he stuck his boiled sausage up between her legs.” Connall made an odd sound, somewhere between a cough and snort, then turned his head abruptly away so that she could not see his expression. Eva was not certain at first if he were angry or shocked, but then she noted the way his shoulders were shaking and suspected the man was actually laughing at her. Indignation quickly rose up in her, but before she could say anything, there was a knock at the door. Eva glared at her husband as he glanced around, then stood and headed for the door. “Yer flouncin’!” Connall crowed with amusement. “Damn me, I’d ha’e sworn ye were no a flouncer, but yer flouncin’!” Realizing

An English lass,” Marach muttered, joining the conversation with a sorrowful shake of the head. Ross chuckled, but shrugged mildly as they approached the gates of Waverly. “A lass is a lass.” “And an English lass is an English lass,” Gilly said grimly as they rode over the bridge across the moat. “I’ve yet to meet an English lass who did no’ look down her nose at us ‘heathen Scots.’ They’re all spoiled rotten.” “Hmm,” Ross said with a sigh. “Well, we shall ha’e to hope this one is no’ spoiled.” “Hope away, me friend,” Gilly said with a grimace. “But prepare yerself for a fishwife o’ a bride who’ll make yer life a nightmare.” Ross