Hanover Quotes

So this is where all the vapid talk about the 'soul' of the universe is actually headed. Once the hard-won principles of reason and science have been discredited, the world will not pass into the hands of credulous herbivores who keep crystals by their sides and swoon over the poems of Khalil Gibran. The 'vacuum' will be invaded instead by determined fundamentalists of every stripe who already know the truth by means of revelation and who actually seek real and serious power in the here and now. One thinks of the painstaking, cloud-dispelling labor of British scientists from Isaac Newton to Joseph Priestley to Charles Darwin to Ernest Rutherford to Alan Turing and Francis Crick, much of it built upon the shoulders of Galileo and Copernicus, only to see it casually slandered by a moral and intellectual weakling from the usurping House of Hanover. An awful embarrassment awaits the British if they do not declare for a republic based on verifiable laws and principles, both political and scientific.

It is the contention of Mr Norrell of Hanover-square that everything belonging to John Uskglass must be shaken out of modern magic, as one would shake moths and dust out of an old coat. What does he imagine he will have left? If you get rid of John Uskglass you will be left holding the empty air.

Leibniz was somewhat mean about money. When any young lady at the court of Hanover married, he used to give her what he called a "wedding present," consisting of useful maxims, ending up with the advice not to give up washing now that she had secured a husband. History does not record whether the brides were grateful.

But really, what was the point of going to school? They nevver knew what to do with me. If you don't fit into once of their boexes, you get tossed aside. I could learn way more at home. Reading my own books and watching Vice . At least when i was at Hanover i could mention Nietzsche with out a teacher staring back with a blank look

We make a picture," he said, "of how we want the world to be, and most of the time it isn't like that. Holding on to that image causes the suffering. Not the world, not the truth. Our disappointment is what makes us hurt.

Retail therapy—usually one of my first resorts—wasn’t working; I felt like a cat that smelled pit bull.

That's a parents' job, isn't it? To raise a child strong enough to leave and break our hearts?

I smile, because I think I finally know who I am now, or who I might become, anyway. I think I might like her.

I'll be your best friend for fifty more years. And after that? You have to reapply.

It’s Levi. Levi, who carried Pru to safety from the boathouse. Levi, who loves classic novels as much as I do. Levi, who sees me for who I am and excepts the good along with the bad. Who’s never known me as anything less than complicated and broken. And who’s loved me anyway.

The air was thick with humidity, but instead of feeling damp, it seemed lush. Like the whole city had just stepped out of the tub, and hadn’t quite gotten its robe on.

Prudence initiated you. You initiate Theodora.

But we could die tomorrow. Or the next day, or the day after that.

I thought I’d lost you again.’ ‘You didn’t. You won’t. Ever.’ ‘Promise?’ ‘Promise.

I feel our connection even as the world falls to pieces around us.

We need our marks, our small illusions; few of us can bear to go naked into the world's gaze. And people will kill to keep their clothes.

Sometimes there is no comfort, only the knowledge that the worst has happened.

Would living like that -with no thoughts, no identity, no way to survive- even be worth it? That thought is scarier than letting the smoke overtake us. Much scarier than dying here, together, knowing we did everything we could for the people we love.

... I regularly frequent St. George';s, Hanover Square, during the genteel marriage season; and though I have never seen the bridegroom's male friends give way to tears, or the beadles and officiating clergy in any way affected, yet it is not at all uncommon to see women who are not in the least concerned in the operations going on -- old ladies who are long past marrying, stout middle-aged females with plenty of sons and daughters, let alone pretty young creatures in pink bonnets, who are on their promotion, and may naturally taken an interest in the ceremony -- I say it is quite common to see the women present piping, sobbing, sniffling; hiding their little faces in their little useless pocket-handkerchiefs; and heaving, old and young, with emotion.

Warren had a most unusual household. A recent widower with four children between the ages of two and eight, he was not only a leading patriot but also had one of the busiest medical practices in Boston. He had two apprentices living with him on Hanover Street, and he sometimes saw as many as twenty patients a day. His practice ran the gamut, from little boys with broken bones, like John Quincy Adams, to prostitutes on aptly named Damnation Alley,

It was always you, Emma.

So we stand there, holding eachother.

Then we found eachother.

Yes,” Chogyi Jake said. “Well, that’s awkward.” “I was thinking the same thing.

the people with the scars on the outside are the lucky ones. It’s the ones on your soul that hurt worst.

How would I overlook the name Moody? Why, that's like overlooking Hanover, or—or Plantagenet.' The woman laughed. 'I would hardly compare Adrian Moody to a royal line!

Go to Hanover and take a name like Everton or Courtney or Fitzharold, a name that sound like both mother and father raise me.

Three youths in Hanover who snatched a lady’s handbag in the black-out have been sentenced to death.

Frederick William’s oddest whimsy was the collection of giants for his Potsdam Grenadiers. They were an obsession; he would spend any money, even risk going to war with his neighbours, to have tall men (often nearer seven than six feet in height, and generally idiotic) kidnapped, smuggled out of their native lands and brought to him. Finally, he acquired over two thousand of them. His agents were everywhere. Kirkman, an Irish giant, was kidnapped in the streets of London, an operation which cost £1,000. A tall Austrian diplomat was seized when getting into a cab in Hanover; he soon extricated himself from the situation, which remained a dinner-table topic for the rest of his life.

We were too late for the elevated, and walked back downtown through Hanover Street. I remember that wall. We switched from Tremont up Beacon, and Pickman left me at the corner of Joy, where I turned off. I never spoke to him again.

Kurt Schumacher, the Hanover-based anti-Nazi who quickly became the leading figure in the post-war Social Democratic Party, was outraged. ‘Wir sind kein Negervolk’ (‘We are not blacks’) the fiery former concentration-camp inmate told Annan.

Men with no faith can still fear the faith of men with more faith than fear,” Hari chorused toward the raiders. Flinching at the first musket fired above his head, Hari collected himself and continued to berate the men retreating before him.

The circle shifted around them, and by the time they were done praying, Katy had the strangest sense: not that everything would be fine any time soon but that God would use the tragic loss of Ben Hanover and Sarah Jo Stryker to build something stronger and better out of CKT.

And so Emma Morley walked home in the evening light, trailing her disappointment behind her. The day was cooling off now, and she shivered as she felt something in the air, an unexpected shudder of anxiety that ran the length of her spine, and was so intense as to make her stop walking for a moment. Fear of the future, she thought. She found herself at the imposing junction of George Street and Hanover Street as all around her people hurried home from work or out to meet friends or lovers, all with a sense of purpose and direction. And here she was, twenty-two and clueless and sloping back to a dingy flat, defeated once again. ‘What are you doing to do with your life?’ In one way or another it seemed that people had been asking her this forever, teachers. her parents, friends at three in the morning, but the question had never seemed this pressing and still she was no nearer an answer. The future rose up ahead of her, a succession of empty days, each more daunting and unknowable than the one before her. How would she ever fill them all? She began walking again, south towards The Mound. ‘Live each day as if it’s your last’, that was the conventional advice, but really, who had the energy for that? What if rained or you felt a bit glandy? It just wasn’t practical. Better by far to simply try and be good and be courageous and bold and to make a difference. Not change the world exactly, but the bit around you. Go out there with your passion and your electric typewriter and work hard at…something. Change lives through art maybe. Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved, if you ever get the chance.

Levi runs his hands through his hair. My heart thuds so loudly in my chest, I'm sure he can hear it. 'Did we just-?" Levi asks.' 'Yes,' I answer softly, finally meeting his eyes. 'We don't even like each other,' he says. 'No,' I answer. 'We don't.' For a minute, we're both silent.

Almost from the time he arrived in Hanover, New Hampshire, the gangly, somewhat nerdy, and idealistic young Fred Rogers felt out of place. By the time the bitter New Hampshire winter set in—lots of mornings below zero—he was miserable. Fred and Dartmouth were a mismatch from the first.

If you're asking me to wear a ski mask, check the Darkwood handbook, Levi says. Page one hundred thirty-seven. Dress Code. Second Paragraph, fourth line. Prohibited item number forty-two: ski masks or other masks that cover the face. Prohibited item number forty-two? Is this kid serious?

There are a few of you who may be here for other, questionable reasons, but it is entirely Headmaster Ransom’s business if he chooses to weight the stratum test in favor of certain…new transfer students. And scholarship students.” Madison looks right at Levi, Theodora, and Maude. “And scholarship students.

He seems to think you’ve had a psychological crisis of some sort. Run off in the night. He wanted me to look into getting you an evaluation. Against your will if necessary.” “Great.” I waited for the next comment, certain she’d ask what was really going on and unsure what I’d say. “Are you certain you want to keep him on the payroll?” she asked.

For a moment or two before the spell took effect, he was aware of all the sounds around him: rain splashing on metal and leather, and running down canvas; horses shuffling and snorting; Englishmen singing and Scotsmen playing bagpipes; two Welsh soldiers arguing over the proper interpretation of a Bible passage; the Scottish captain, John Kincaid, entertaining the American savages and teaching them to drink tea (presumably with the idea that once a man had learnt to drink tea, the other habits and qualities that make up a Briton would naturally follow). Then silence. Men and horses began to disappear, few by few at first, and then more quickly – hundreds, thousands of them vanishing from sight. Great gaps appeared among the close-packed soldiers. A little further to the east an entire regiment was gone, leaving a hole the size of Hanover-square. Where, moments before, all had been life, conversation and activity, there was now nothing but the rain and the twilight and the waving stalks of rye. Strange wiped his mouth because he felt sick.

more stroking your inner victim. Bad for your skin.

He had a special fondness for the moving parts of women, their wrists, their butterfly-shaped ankles, their shoulder blades like a swan’s folded wings. In particular he treasured their knees, especially the back of them, where the skin was pale, milk-blue, with delicate fissures, little fine cracks, as in the most fragile old pieces of bone china. — John Banville, April in Spain (Hanover Square Press, 2021)

I wondered whether Eric would have done the same: used the missing Carla as leverage, gotten what he wanted, and to hell with everybody else. Silly question. Of course he would have. And apparently so would I.

You did your Oh, poor me, and that’s fine. We all get those sometimes. It’s just that being a victim gets to be a habit. You stay there too long, you get comfortable. Gets to where a victim is who you are. So game-plan it. Put on your big-girl panties and tell me what’re you gonna do.

McDougall was a certified revolutionary hero, while the Scottish-born cashier, the punctilious and corpulent William Seton, was a Loyalist who had spent the war in the city. In a striking show of bipartisan unity, the most vociferous Sons of Liberty—Marinus Willett, Isaac Sears, and John Lamb—appended their names to the bank’s petition for a state charter. As a triple power at the new bank—a director, the author of its constitution, and its attorney—Hamilton straddled a critical nexus of economic power. One of Hamilton’s motivations in backing the bank was to introduce order into the manic universe of American currency. By the end of the Revolution, it took $167 in continental dollars to buy one dollar’s worth of gold and silver. This worthless currency had been superseded by new paper currency, but the states also issued bills, and large batches of New Jersey and Pennsylvania paper swamped Manhattan. Shopkeepers had to be veritable mathematical wizards to figure out the fluctuating values of the varied bills and coins in circulation. Congress adopted the dollar as the official monetary unit in 1785, but for many years New York shopkeepers still quoted prices in pounds, shillings, and pence. The city was awash with strange foreign coins bearing exotic names: Spanish doubloons, British and French guineas, Prussian carolines, Portuguese moidores. To make matters worse, exchange rates differed from state to state. Hamilton hoped that the Bank of New York would counter all this chaos by issuing its own notes and also listing the current exchange rates for the miscellaneous currencies. Many Americans still regarded banking as a black, unfathomable art, and it was anathema to upstate populists. The Bank of New York was denounced by some as the cat’s-paw of British capitalists. Hamilton’s petition to the state legislature for a bank charter was denied for seven years, as Governor George Clinton succumbed to the prejudices of his agricultural constituents who thought the bank would give preferential treatment to merchants and shut out farmers. Clinton distrusted corporations as shady plots against the populace, foreshadowing the Jeffersonian revulsion against Hamilton’s economic programs. The upshot was that in June 1784 the Bank of New York opened as a private bank without a charter. It occupied the Walton mansion on St. George’s Square (now Pearl Street), a three-story building of yellow brick and brown trim, and three years later it relocated to Hanover Square. It was to house the personal bank accounts of both Alexander Hamilton and John Jay and prove one of Hamilton’s most durable monuments, becoming the oldest stock traded on the New York Stock Exchange.

To Gobineau, as he stated in his dedication of the work to the King of Hanover, the key to history and civilization was race. “The racial question dominates all the other problems of history… the inequality of races suffices to explain the whole unfolding of the destiny of peoples.” There were three principal races, white, yellow and black, and the white was the superior. “History,” he contended, “shows that all civilization flows from the white race, that no civilization can exist without the co-operation of this race.” The jewel of the white race was the Aryan, “this illustrious human family, the noblest among the white race,” whose origins he traced back to Central Asia. Unfortunately, Gobineau says, the contemporary Aryan suffered from intermixture with inferior races, as one could see in the southern Europe of his time. However, in the northwest, above a line running roughly along the Seine and east to Switzerland, the Aryans, though far from simon-pure, still survived as a superior race. This took in some of the French, all of the English and the Irish, the people of the Low Countries and the Rhine and Hanover, and the Scandinavians. Gobineau seemingly excluded the bulk of the Germans, who lived to the east and southeast of his line—a fact which the Nazis glossed over when they embraced his teachings.

The mornings came hard, and our caddie master, Dick Millweed, had a temper that could make a hangover seem like a seismic fracture. He was a small man with a soft, friendly voice. He was not intimidating at all, until he lost it. In his defense, he took shit from all sides - from the members who wanted their favorite caddie and their preferred tee time, from the golf staff who wanted him to perform a million menial duties, and from us when we showed up bleary eyed and incoherent and sometimes didn't show up at all. And God forbid a caddie should stumble in late, because then Millweed's lips would begin to tremble and his blue eyes would explode from his head. They grew as large as saucers and shook as though his skull was suffering earthquake. And he appeared to grow with them. It was like some shaman or yogi trick. Pound for pound, I've never met anyone else who could so effectively deliver anger. He would yell, "You like fucking with me, don't you? You like making me look bad! You wake up and say, 'Today I'm gonna fuck with Millweed!' and it makes you happy, doesn't it?" And we had no choice but to stand there and take it - hang our heads and blubber apologies and promise never to be hung over again, never to show up late again, because he held the ultimate trump card _ he could fire us and cut us off from the golden tit. But once we were out on the course walking it off, the hanover and any cares associated with it (including Millweed) evaporated into the light mountain air. And after the round, with our pockets replenished and our spirits restored by the carefree, self-congratulatory ebullience of the uberrich, we were powerless to resist the siren song of clinking glasses, the inviting golden light of the street lamps and tavern windows in town, and the slopeside hot tubs steaming under the stars. We all jumped ship and dined, danced, and romanced the night away and then were dashed against the rocks of Millweed's wrath all over again the next morning.

Tim Tigner began his career in Soviet Counterintelligence with the US Army Special Forces, the Green Berets. That was back in the Cold War days when, “We learned Russian so you didn't have to,” something he did at the Presidio of Monterey alongside Recon Marines and Navy SEALs. With the fall of the Berlin Wall, Tim switched from espionage to arbitrage. Armed with a Wharton MBA rather than a Colt M16, he moved to Moscow in the midst of Perestroika. There, he led prominent multinational medical companies, worked with cosmonauts on the MIR Space Station (from Earth, alas), chaired the Association of International Pharmaceutical Manufacturers, and helped write Russia’s first law on healthcare. Moving to Brussels during the formation of the EU, Tim ran Europe, Middle East, and Africa for a Johnson & Johnson company and traveled like a character in a Robert Ludlum novel. He eventually landed in Silicon Valley, where he launched new medical technologies as a startup CEO. In his free time, Tim has climbed the peaks of Mount Olympus, hang glided from the cliffs of Rio de Janeiro, and ballooned over Belgium. He earned scuba certification in Turkey, learned to ski in Slovenia, and ran the Serengeti with a Maasai warrior. He acted on stage in Portugal, taught negotiations in Germany, and chaired a healthcare conference in Holland. Tim studied psychology in France, radiology in England, and philosophy in Greece. He has enjoyed ballet at the Bolshoi, the opera on Lake Como, and the symphony in Vienna. He’s been a marathoner, paratrooper, triathlete, and yogi.  Intent on combining his creativity with his experience, Tim began writing thrillers in 1996 from an apartment overlooking Moscow’s Gorky Park. Decades later, his passion for creative writing continues to grow every day. His home office now overlooks a vineyard in Northern California, where he lives with his wife Elena and their two daughters. Tim grew up in the Midwest, and graduated from Hanover College with a BA in Philosophy and Mathematics. After military service and work as a financial analyst and foreign-exchange trader, he earned an MBA in Finance and an MA in International Studies from the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton and Lauder Schools.  Thank you for taking the time to read about the author. Tim is most grateful for his loyal fans, and loves to correspond with readers like you. You are welcome to reach him directly at tim@timtigner.com.

The good times not coming, and yet time going on, I fear all my bright castles in the air (which have so entirely failed in this world, and left, I fear, a deep scar not to be effaced, though smothered in my breast) are nearly at an end.

Many people desire no more than a convention— the sharing of a home, a social position, children, and the wider family; they do not wish to share their thoughts or their leisure, above all they do not wish to reveal their inner selves, where dreams are held, where they may be known, and thus wounded. They will not take risks. In the end there is no generosity of soul, only safety. There is no giving where there may be cost.

I knew you forever and you were always old, soft white lady of my heart. Surely you would scold me for sitting up late, reading your letters, as if these foreign postmarks were meant for me. You posted them first in London, wearing furs and a new dress in the winter of eighteen-ninety. I read how London is dull on Lord Mayor's Day, where you guided past groups of robbers, the sad holes of Whitechapel, clutching your pocketbook, on the way to Jack the Ripper dissecting his famous bones. This Wednesday in Berlin, you say, you will go to a bazaar at Bismarck's house. And I see you as a young girl in a good world still, writing three generations before mine. I try to reach into your page and breathe it back… but life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack. This is the sack of time your death vacates. How distant your are on your nickel-plated skates in the skating park in Berlin, gliding past me with your Count, while a military band plays a Strauss waltz. I loved you last, a pleated old lady with a crooked hand. Once you read Lohengrin and every goose hung high while you practiced castle life in Hanover. Tonight your letters reduce history to a guess. The count had a wife. You were the old maid aunt who lived with us. Tonight I read how the winter howled around the towers of Schloss Schwobber, how the tedious language grew in your jaw, how you loved the sound of the music of the rats tapping on the stone floors. When you were mine you wore an earphone. This is Wednesday, May 9th, near Lucerne, Switzerland, sixty-nine years ago. I learn your first climb up Mount San Salvatore; this is the rocky path, the hole in your shoes, the yankee girl, the iron interior of her sweet body. You let the Count choose your next climb. You went together, armed with alpine stocks, with ham sandwiches and seltzer wasser. You were not alarmed by the thick woods of briars and bushes, nor the rugged cliff, nor the first vertigo up over Lake Lucerne. The Count sweated with his coat off as you waded through top snow. He held your hand and kissed you. You rattled down on the train to catch a steam boat for home; or other postmarks: Paris, verona, Rome. This is Italy. You learn its mother tongue. I read how you walked on the Palatine among the ruins of the palace of the Caesars; alone in the Roman autumn, alone since July. When you were mine they wrapped you out of here with your best hat over your face. I cried because I was seventeen. I am older now. I read how your student ticket admitted you into the private chapel of the Vatican and how you cheered with the others, as we used to do on the fourth of July. One Wednesday in November you watched a balloon, painted like a silver abll, float up over the Forum, up over the lost emperors, to shiver its little modern cage in an occasional breeze. You worked your New England conscience out beside artisans, chestnut vendors and the devout. Tonight I will learn to love you twice; learn your first days, your mid-Victorian face. Tonight I will speak up and interrupt your letters, warning you that wars are coming, that the Count will die, that you will accept your America back to live like a prim thing on the farm in Maine. I tell you, you will come here, to the suburbs of Boston, to see the blue-nose world go drunk each night, to see the handsome children jitterbug, to feel your left ear close one Friday at Symphony. And I tell you, you will tip your boot feet out of that hall, rocking from its sour sound, out onto the crowded street, letting your spectacles fall and your hair net tangle as you stop passers-by to mumble your guilty love while your ears die.

spotting and stopping them? After having been kidnapped, tortured and left for dead when she was just a teenager—by her high school boyfriend—she’s determined to understand how someone she trusted

how someone she trusted so much could turn on her. So she’s established a revolutionary new medical health center in the remote town of Hilltop, Alaska, where

they cause? And are there better ways of spotting and stopping them? After having been

mind. Why do psychopaths act as they do? How do they come to be? Why don’t they feel any remorse for the suffering they cause? And are there better ways of spotting and stopping them? After having been kidnapped, tortured and left for dead when she was just a teenager—by her high school boyfriend—she’s

they come to be? Why don’t they feel any remorse for the suffering they cause? And are there better ways of spotting and stopping them? After having been

Taverns, and the dozens of dramshops that catered to seamen and the laboring classes, were often run by widows who received free licenses from the Common Council, an inexpensive form of relief. Women were also prominent in the retail shops that boomed after the late 1720s. The Widow Lebrosses carried Canary wine and olive oil in her store at Hanover Square, the city’s shopping center, while the Widow Vanderspiegel and her son sold imported window glass. Mrs. Edwards started a cosmetics business in 1736, offering “An admirable Beautifying Wash, for Hands Face and Neck, it makes the Skin soft, smooth and plump, it likewise takes away Redness, Fredkles, Sun-Burnings, or Pimples.” The continuing role of women in trade, English as well as Dutch, promoted a certain feistiness among their ranks that ran contrary to prescriptions for proper female behavior.

The psychopaths are always around. In calm times we study them, but in times of upheaval, they rule over us.” —Ernst Kretschmer

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A melancholy vista discloses itself to all rational understandings; - a church in tatters; a peerage humbled and degraded - no doubt, soon to be entirely got rid off; that poor, deluded man, the well-meaning William IV, probably packed off to Hanover; the three per cents down to two, at the very best of it; a graduated property tax sapping the vitals of order in all quarters; and, no question, parliamentary grants and pensions of every description no longer held sacred!

Hanover, Denmark and Spain, he pointed out that Louis’ power and ambition were a threat

With the Revolution of 1688, and more so since the Hanover succession, came the destructive system of continental intrigues, and the rage for foreign wars and foreign dominion; systems of such secure mystery that the expenses admit of no accounts; a single line stands for millions.

Although in 2005 compact discs still represented over 98 percent of the market for legal album sales, Morris had no loyalty to the format. In May of that year, Vivendi Universal announced it was spinning off its CD manufacturing and distribution business into a calcified corporate shell called the Entertainment Distribution Company. Included in EDC’s assets were several massive warehouses and two large-scale compact disc manufacturing plants: one in Hanover, Germany, and one in Kings Mountain, North Carolina. Universal would still manufacture all its CDs at the plants, but now this would be an arms-length transaction that allowed them to watch the superannuation of optical media from a comfortable distance. It was one of the oldest moves in the corporate finance playbook: divest yourself of underperforming assets while holding on to the good stuff. EDC was a classic “stub company,” a dogshit collection of low-growth, capital-intensive factory equipment that was rapidly going obsolete. In other words, EDC was a drag on A that added little to B. Let the investment bankers figure out who wanted it—Universal had gone digital, and the death rattle of the compact disc had grown loud enough for even Doug Morris to hear. The CD was the past; the iPod was the future. People loved these stupid things. You could hardly go outside without getting run over by some dumb jogger rocking white headphones and a clip-on Shuffle. Apple stores were generating more sales per square foot than any business in the history of retail. The wrapped-up box with a sleek wafer-sized Nano inside was the most popular gift in the history of Christmas. Apple had created the most ubiquitous gadget in the history of stuff.

Hanover House?” “That, or it’s possible someone just thinks it’s funny. But if I find out who that someone is, I’m going to make them awfully sorry.” He stepped back and told his dog to go inside with her. “Makita will stay with you until I check things out.” She nodded and closed the door so that Makita wouldn’t be tempted to follow

Snowmen tipsy from thaw and refreezing marked my progress as I rolled slowly down Hanover Street.

the techs. Hanover said,

Despite his doubts, Fred came through, pledging his own equity toward his son’s success—an early sign that although the father himself had no interest in taking on Manhattan, he would stand by his son, helping him at key moments in the formative years of Donald’s career. Fred would also personally back construction loans from Manufacturers Hanover Trust, guaranteeing that the bankers would be paid even if Donald’s venture collapsed. For

Denunciations to the SS were indeed frequent and could result in swift punishment—as in the Hanover-Misburg satellite camp, where a Belgian and a French prisoner were summarily executed in early 1945 after a German worker complained to the Camp SS supervisor that his sandwich had been stolen.

It was not the people of Prussia who bartered their allegiance to the fatherland for peace and for Hanover. It was their King and princes who brought this stain upon them, and their beautiful Queen Louise, mother of the late Emperor William, had pleaded in vain with the King to pursue a loyal and patriotic course. The

Appalled by what he saw, he instead prepared a private, two-room apartment for her in the basement of Scotchtown. Each room had a window, providing light, air circulation, and a pleasant view of the grounds. The apartment also had a fireplace, which provided good heat in the winter, and a comfortable bed to sleep in." After placing Sarah there for “treatment” for a short time, at the urging of his personal physician Thomas Hinde, Henry vowed to take her back home and care for her himself. Thus, Henry moved her to Scotchtown plantation back in Hanover County. His oldest daughter, Patsy, also moved there with her husband, and together the family created a small, comfortable apartment in the basement of the home where Sarah could live and be supervised. To his credit, Henry remained devoted to her and cared for her himself when he was at home. When he was away, as he often was, Patsy and the other children, or a female slave, saw to her needs and kept her from harming herself or anyone else.

Have you noticed how one condemns most self-righteously that which one has never had the opportunity to do?

Still, McKinsey’s high self-regard survives even in the face of evidence to the contrary. McKinsey consultant Tom Steiner recalled a strategy study done for the New York office by another partner, Chuck Farr. “He had two slides. The first was the top clients of the New York office, by billings—companies like AT&T, American Express, and Manufacturers Hanover. All the partners got up to talk about what special thing McKinsey had done to become so vital to those clients. Before we knew it, there were only fifteen minutes left of what was supposed to be a two-hour meeting. Someone said, ‘What’s on the second slide?’ It was Booz Allen’s top clients. And they were pretty much the same companies.”14 McKinsey may have been earning more than Booz at the time, but it was from a client base that was clearly willing to pay for advice from everyone. There’s nothing special about that kind of product.

iv. shithole

His death, on July 30, 1700, set in

THE CATER STREET HANGMAN CALLANDER SQUARE PARAGON WALK RESURRECTION ROW BLUEGATE FIELDS RUTLAND PLACE DEATH IN THE DEVIL’S ACRE CARDINGTON CRESCENT SILENCE IN HANOVER CLOSE BETHLEHEM ROAD HIGHGATE RISE BELGRAVE SQUARE FARRIERS’ LANE THE HYDE PARK HEADSMAN TRAITORS GATE PENTECOST ALLEY ASHWORTH HALL BRUNSWICK GARDENS BEDFORD SQUARE HALF MOON STREET THE WHITECHAPEL CONSPIRACY SOUTHAMPTON ROW SEVEN DIALS LONG SPOON LANE BUCKINGHAM PALACE GARDENS

You are right,” Josette said softly. “I am devoted

Gentlemen are so trying! We shall forget them and visit the milliner. A new bonnet will banish the blues as nothing else.

Where and how did you propose?" She bit her lip. "Um..." Callen ran a hand over Grace's hair. "In bed as nature intended." He shot an apologetic glance his mother's direction. "Sorry." She shook her head. "That's okay. I figured out you've slept together." For some reason that struck Mallory as hysterical. "The pregnancy gave it away, right?

My whole adult life I’ve worked toward one goal—the success of our business. But I might as well have been chasing the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. What I was looking for, striving for, wasn’t really there. Meaning I’ve been measuring the value of my life all wrong. Then I met you and realized that being a somebody isn’t nearly as wonderful as having a somebody. And being somebody to somebody else.

well as street vendors crying their wares. The mob had

someone

Sometimes there is no comfort, only the knowledge that the worst has happened

If she’d pulled out a scroll of human skin covered with Latin and asked me to sign in blood, I probably would have done it. Everything was paper and ink, though, and there was only a little Latin.

blown

You’re cool?” “Cucumberesque,” I said.

He meant well,” Chogyi Jake said. His voice was soft. “He’s a fucking asshole,” I managed between sobs. “He’s a fucking asshole who meant well.

Has anyone ever told you that you are really freaking terrible at pep talks? You could just pat me on the head and say it’ll all be fine and not to worry.” “It’ll all be fine,” he said, patting me on the head. “Don’t worry.” “Okay. That so didn’t work,

Charm watched her go. Mercy would continue carrying pain for others. For Oram and for the Firedrinkers. But that was Mercy’s choice and Charm could not make it for her. There were, of course, complications. Mercy was not quite human, for all that she so clearly wanted to be. She could not have children. Charm would make sure the Assembly didn’t weep about that or try to force some other bride on Oram. It would be easy to point out to Hanover that if the Assembly got into the habit of electing the emperors, they would retain a great deal of the Imperial power. It was the least Charm could do for her child.

Charm watched her go. Mercy would continue carrying pain for others. For Oram and for the Firedrinkers. But that was Mercy’s choice and Charm could not make it for her. There were, of course, complications. Mercy was not quite human, for all that she so clearly wanted to be. She could not have children. Charm would make sure the Assembly didn’t weep about that or try to force some other bride on Oram. It would be easy to point out t Hanover that if the Assembly got into the habit of electing the emperors, they would retain a great deal of the Imperial power. It was the least Charm could do for her child.

Jayné?’ Aubrey said. ‘You okay?’ ‘Fine. Why?’ ‘You keep saying shit shit shit shit under your breath,’ he said. ‘I didn’t figure it was a good sign.’ ‘Copro-vocal meditation,’ Chogyi Jake said from the backseat, his voice calm and amused. ‘I’m doing the same thing, only on the inside.

You have a plan?’ Mfume said. ‘That would be generous,’ I said as I got out. ‘I’ve got a bunch of general intentions and thirty or so people with cheap handguns and machetes.’ ‘More effective than intention alone, I suppose,’ Mfume said.

Are you all right?’ ‘Just fine,’ I said. ‘You sure?’ ‘Not a hundred percent, no,’ I said. ‘Middle eighties, maybe.

or not. Finding their house burned down would have put quite a kink in her plans.’ Clay looked up, impressed. ‘Could very well be.’ Dana lifted a shoulder. ‘If she knew Tammy from prison, that’s how she ended up at Hanover House. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out why. It would only make sense if there was absolutely no other place to hide. It was so much trouble, finding us, getting herself bruised. Even for Sue this seems like a lot of trouble just to pay back some social workers. But if her first plan was the Lewises’ and if she was afraid enough of Lorenzano . . . It might have been reason enough.

During my fourth self-induced out-of-body experience I screamed out that I had to see God. Words can’t begin to describe it, but it felt like I suddenly shot upward through layers of colors. I completely surrendered to the intense motion. I experienced absolute oneness with all intelligence, all life. My awareness merged with the universe, with God, and for a few moments all knowledge flowed through me. It was the most incredible moment of my life. —KEITH G., HANOVER, PENNSYLVANIA

This time, their father, Edwin Hanover, chased Tiana. Seeing the skinwalker in all his beastly forms pursuing Tiana had once terrified Arthur, but the expression on his father’s face alarmed him more.

The legislators cited an 1806 law that required freed slaves to leave Virginia within one year or face re-enslavement. And so the legislators voted to allow the manumission only if the freed slaves moved out of Virginia. Three hundred of the slaves left their homes in Virginia's counties of Hanover, Amherst, Goslin, and Henrico and, under the guidance of Gist's agents, resettled in Brown County, Ohio, in two communities. The remaining fifty came separately, stopping several places on the way and arriving more than a year later.

One day in 1998, a real estate broker called Offit: “Would you make a loan to Donald Trump?” Trump at the time was a casino magnate known for his occasional showbiz hijinks and his on-and-off dealings with organized crime figures. He also was a deadbeat, having defaulted on loans to finance his Atlantic City casinos and stiffing lenders, contractors, and business partners in other projects. Quite a few banks—including Citigroup, Manufacturers Hanover (a predecessor of JPMorgan), the British lender NatWest, and of course Bankers Trust—had endured hundreds of millions of losses at the hands of Trump.

Citigroup, Manufacturers Hanover (a predecessor of JPMorgan), the British lender NatWest, and of course Bankers Trust—had endured hundreds of millions of losses at the hands of Trump.

Heath's politics had been forged in the decade before 1945, when war in Europe had brought the continent to the brink of destruction. As a student in the 1930s, he had travelled through Germany and witnessed a Nazi rally at Nuremberg. He had visited Spain during the Civil War, witnessing at close hand the bombing of Barcelona. During the Second World War he had fought in France and Belgium, before ending the conflict in the shattered city of Hanover. European unity, he believed, was not only an economic necessity but a moral imperative. ‘Only by working together’, he wrote later, could nations ‘uphold the true values of European civilization’.