Hmmmm Quotes

Hmmmm...There certainly are a lot of pretty boys in this world.

Vegas?" I asked. His brow furrowed, unsure of where I was headed. "Yeah?" "Have you thought about going back?" His eyebrows shot up. "I don't think that's a good idea for me." "What if we just went for a night?" He looked around the dark room, confused. "A night?" "Marry me," I said without hesitation. I was surprised at how quickly and easily the words came. His mouth spread into a broad smile. "When?" I shrugged. "We can book a flight tomorrow. It's spring break. I dont't have anything going on tomorrow, do you?" "I'm callin' your bluff," he said, watching my reaction closely as he was connected. "I need two tickets to vegas, please. Tomorrow. Hmmmm...," he looked at me, waiting for me to change my mind. "Two days, round trip. Whatever you have.

Isn't that interesting." "Hmmmm?" "When you blush, it doesn't stop at your collarbone.

I could not imagine the kind of person that would, upon seeing a crazy talcum-powder-covered Southern lady think to herself, Hmmmm, she might make a great new friend. The line between normal and crazy seemed impossibly thin.

Hmmmm. But what do the dead say? Did

You like lies?” Shallan asked. “Good lies,” Pattern said. “That lie. Good lie.” “What makes a lie good?” Shallan asked, taking careful notes, recording Pattern’s exact words. “True lies.” “Pattern, those two are opposites.” “Hmmmm . . . Light makes shadow. Truth makes lies. Hmmmm.

I wish I could be here for you all the time.” He said this quietly; it was a confession, maybe he was even asking for her forgiveness, just a little bit. Her eyes opened again. “But you are. I feel you even when you’re not here.” “You do?” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” She touched his face. “You’re with me all the time. You have no idea what you pull me through, babe, just by existing.

I don’t know why religious zealots have this compulsion to try to convert everyone who passes before them – I don’t go around trying to make them into St Louis Cardinals fans, for Christ’s sake – and yet they never fail to try. Nowadays when accosted I explain to them that anyone wearing white socks with Hush Puppies and a badge saying HI! I’M GUS! probably couldn’t talk me into getting out of a burning car, much less into making a lifelong commitment to a deity, and ask them to send someone more intelligent and with a better dress sense next time, but back then I was too meek to do anything but listen politely and utter non-committal ‘Hmmmm’s’ to their suggestions that Jesus could turn my life around. Somewhere over the Atlantic, as I was sitting taking stock of my 200 cubic centimetres of personal space, as one does on a long plane flight, I spied a coin under the seat in front of me, and with protracted difficulty leaned forward and snagged it. When I sat up, I saw my seatmate was at last looking at me with that ominous glow. ‘Have you found Jesus?’ he said suddenly. ‘Uh, no, it’s a quarter,’ I answered and quickly settled down and pretended for the next six hours to be asleep, ignoring his whispered entreaties to let Christ build a bunkhouse in my heart.

I've played the song for a lot of people who respond, 'Hmmmm, this is interesting,' but in a way it's more like 'There are two exits in this room, the window and the door. If this song doesn't end soon, I'm going to opt for the window.

Saya berpikir, "Kenapa gue bisa optimis? Hmmmm..." Terus terang saya bingung karena pertanyaan itu mengesankan: yang aneh itu saya. Bukan justru mereka yang pesimis terhadap Indonesia. Saya, seperti jadi minoritas. Sebuah anomali. Maka yang keluar dari mulut saya sambil menatap wartawan itu kebingungan adalah.. "Kalau orang-orang tahu apa yang saya tahu tentang Indonesia, mereka juga akan optimis...

Got any new ways to torture and kill people?” “Hmmm,” said the voice. “Did you try stabbing them?” “Of course. That’s one oh one stuff.” “Shooting?’ “With extreme prejudice.” “Burning?” “Yes.” “Strangling?” “Naturally, I mean, I strangle people while I’m sleeping, even.” “Crushing?’ “Sure.” “Mangling?” “All the time.” “Hmmmm. Can we think about this?

What’s this war called again?” “The Hundred Years War.” “Hmmmm, got a bad feeling about this one.

Superheroes are make-believe." "Oh yeah?" Lula said. "What about God?" "Hmmmm.

How is it that I've come and I wasn't able to feel it? Archer holds up the dripping sound. "So you did like it, hmmmm? I knew you would." I think like is the wrong word. Frighting. Intense, maybe. Not like.

Any requests?” he asked. “Take off your pants.” He grinned at me over his shoulder. “I meant music.” “Oh. Hmmmm.” I rested my chin on my shoulder. “Don’t you have an American Chick in My Apartment playlist?” “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.

Georgia, high-functioning autism is like the marsh, where the salt water and fresh water combine to form a vastly unique and fragile ecosystem. It's a really fine line between "quirky" and "problematic." A gap between "talented" and "not quite right." Somewhere between "cute" and "hmmmm.

For me, living on the coast of Georgia, high-functioning autism is like the marsh, where the salt water and fresh water combine to form a vastly unique and fragile ecosystem. It's a really fine line between "quirky" and "problematic." A gap between "talented" and "not quite right." Somewhere between "cute" and "hmmmm.

reasonable. So in the practice of awareness, which has gone on for centuries after centuries and millennium after millennium, human beings have asked themselves, Hmmmm, how do I engage this process in a way that I don’t become too frightened by what it might unfold or too complacent by avoiding it? This is the delicate work of awareness.

Hmmmm?” He looked around at her. She thought the look on his face was one of gentle abstraction, perhaps mixed with minor annoyance. It was only later, replaying the scene in her mind again and again, that she began to believe it was the expression of a man who was methodically unplugging himself from reality, one cord at a time. The face of a man who was heading out of the blue and into the black.

Randy grinds his teeth for about a mile, and then says, “If there is any generalization at all that you can draw about how men think versus how women think, I believe it is that men can narrow themselves down to this incredibly narrow laser-beam focus on one tiny little subject and think about nothing else.” “Whereas women can’t?” “I suppose women can. They rarely seem to want to. What I’m characterizing here, as the female approach, is essentially saner and healthier.” “Hmmmm.

What did she say?" Lauren breathed. "She told me to check the oil," Nick replied imperturbably. Despite his outward attitude of total indifference, Lauren couldn't believe that as a younger man he'd been so vulnerable. Surely having his own mother treat him as if he didn't exist must have hurt him terribly. "Is that all she said?" she asked tightly. Unaware that Lauren was not sharing his ironic humor in the story,he said, "No-I think she asked me to check the air in her tires too." Lauren had kept her voice neutral, but inwardly she felt ill. Tears stung her eyes, and she turned her face up to the purpling sky to hide them,pretending to watch the lacy clouds drifting over the moon. "Lauren?" His voice sounded curt. "Hmmmm?" she asked,staring steadfastly at the moon. Leaning forward,he caught her chin and turned her face toward his. He looked at her brimming eyes in stunned disbelief. "You're crying!" he said incredulously. Lauren waved a dismissing hand at him. "Don't pay any attention to that-I cry at movies too.

The gentleman offered her a fond smile. "I apologize, mademoiselle, but we are closing our doors soon. What you ask is simply impossible." "Improbably perhaps. But not impossible. I will wait outside all night if need be. It is a sad state of affairs when a girl must resort to threats in order to be given the attention she is due." She folded her ungloved hands in her lap. "If I'm outside all night, I hope it weighs on your conscience." "Rather uncompromising of you, mademoiselle," he said. "Hmmmm. Rather like looking in the mirror, I'd wager.

You wanna buy some death sticks?” the man asked, conspiratorially. “Um... what are death sticks?” asked Jack, struggling to get his brain to focus. “It's an incredibly addictive drug that'll dramatically shorten your lifespan each time you take it.” “So… it'll kill me?” “Oh, most definitely.” “Why in the world would I want to buy something like that?” The dealer blinked at Jack as though that thought had never occurred to him before.  “Hmmmm... maybe that's why I don't sell many of them,” mumbled the dealer.  “I'm gonna go home and rethink my life.” The

Even if I hadn’t a gag of magic in my mouth, I wouldn’t have dared spoken. Tristan peered at me as though I were a curious insect. “She isn’t mute, is she? That would be dreadful.” He leaned back against the chair, his strange eyes fixed on me. “On second thought, perhaps it wouldn’t be dreadful at all. I hardly need another woman in my life telling me what to do, and it would mean I could do all the talking and she the listening.” “Perhaps our mistake was in not finding you a deaf one,” Marc said. “And her name is Cécile de Troyes, which you very well know, so quit pretending otherwise.” “Thank you, cousin. It was on the tip of my tongue. Now Mademoiselle de Troyes, tell us your thoughts. Astound us with your wit.” “Mmmmm hmmmm,” I mumbled around the gag. “Could you repeat that?” he said, coming closer. “Afraid I didn’t quite catch the punch line.” A slender finger caught me under the chin, lifting my face. He frowned. “Release her, Aunty.” “She tried to run.” A noise of exasperation passed his lips. “To where? There is nowhere for her to go, nowhere to hide. Binding her is unnecessary.” His flippancy made my heart sink – the very idea of my escape was so improbable to him that it was little more than a jest. I felt power brush over my skin, and I dropped to numb feet. If not for Marc taking hold of my arm, I’d have sprawled across the carpets in front of them all.

There are marble-workers at the Barrière du Maine, and painters and workers in the sculptors' studios. They're keen, on the whole, but inclined to blow hot and cold. I don't know what's got into them recently. They seem to have lost interest, they spend their whole time playing dominoes. It's important for someone to go and talk to them, and talk bluntly. Their place is the Café Richefeu and they're always there between twelve and one. It needs a puff of air to brighten up those members. I was going to ask that dreamy character, Marius, but he doesn't come here any more. So I need someone for the Barrière du Maine, and I've no one to send." "There's me," said Grantaire. "I'm here." "You?" "Why not?" "You'll go out and preach republicanism, rouse up the half-hearted in the name of principle?" "Why shouldn't I?" "Would you be any good at it?" "I'd quite like to try," said Grantaire. "But you don't believe in anything?" "I believe in you." "Grantaire, do you really want to do me a service?" "Anything you like — I'd black your boots." "Then keep out of our affairs. Stick to your absinthe.

The little sneak caught me one day, coming around the car when I was outside puffing away. “I was wondering what you were doing,” he said, spying me squatting behind the truck. He’d nailed me, but the look on his face made it seem as if our roles were reversed--he looked as if he were in shock, as if I’d just slapped him. When I went back inside, I found he’d taped signs to the walls: DON’T SMOKE! I laugh about it now, but not then. “Why are you so devastated that I’m smoking?” I asked when I found him. “Because. I already lost one parent. I don’t want to lose you, too.” “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I told him. “I’m going to stop.” But of course it wasn’t nearly that easy. As horrible as I felt, I was deep into the habit. I would quit for a while--a day, an hour--then somehow a cigarette would find its way to my mouth. I continued to rationalize, continued to struggle--and Bubba continued to call me out. “I’m trying,” I told him. “I’m trying.” He’d come up and give me a hug--and smell the cigarette still on me. “Did you have one?” “Yes.” “Hmmmm…” Instant tears. “I’m trying, I’m trying.” One day I went out to the patio to take what turned out to be a super stressful call--and I started to smoke, almost unconsciously. In the middle of the conversation, Bubba came out and threw a paper airplane at me. What!!! My son scrambled back inside. I was furious, but the call was too important to cut short. Wait until I get you, mister! Just as I hung up, Bubba appeared at the window and pointed at the airplane at my feet. I opened it up and read his message. YOU SUCK AT TRYING. That hurt, not least of all because it was true. I tried harder. I switched to organic cigarettes--those can’t be that bad for you, right? They’re organic! Turns out organic tars and nicotine are still tars and nicotine. I quit for day, then started again. I resolved not to go to the store so I couldn’t be tempted…then found myself hunting through my jacket for an old packet, rifling around in my hiding places for a cigarette I’d forgotten. Was that a half-smoked butt I saw on the ground? Finally, I remembered one of the sayings SEALs live by: Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Not exactly the conventional advice one uses to stop smoking, but the conventional advice had failed me. For some reason I took the words and tried applying them to my heartbeat, slowing my pulse as it ramped up. It was a kind of mini-meditation, meant to take the place of a cigarette. The mantra helped me take control. I focused on the thoughts that were making me panic, or at least getting my heart racing. Slow is smooth. Slow down, heart. Slow down--and don’t smoke. I worked on my breathing. Slow is smooth. Slow is smooth. And don’t smoke.

Allison Prouty, who raises her hand for everything, helped give out the scripts while Donatello told us what parts we each had. When she got to me, she said, “Rafe, I think you’d make a fine Paris,” and everyone in the room started laughing, right at me. “Paris?” I asked. “Why do I have to read a girl’s part?” “Paris is a boy,” Donatello told me. “He’s one of Lord Capulet’s best men.” “Yeah, well, he probably still wears tights,” I said, but Donatello ignored me. “Listen to the language as we read through,” she told everyone. “Notice how every line has ten syllables. Notice the subtle rhyming. That’s not easy to do. Nobody wrote like Shakespeare. Nobody!” And I thought—hmmmm. Idea in progress, please stand by. “Let’s begin,” Donatello said. “‘Act One, Scene One.’ ” It turned out that this Paris guy (he really was a guy) doesn’t come in until page 12. That was good. It gave me time to work on my idea. Donatello probably thought I was taking notes like Jeanne Galletta and the other brainiacs, but I was actually hot on the trail of those 30,000 points. Ten syllables per line? Check! Rhyming? Check! By the time we got to my part, there were only a couple

I’ve been reading poetry publicly for 20 years, and this is what you do—you express, you sometimes dig a bit to get a conversation started. That’s the point of poetry. You’re supposed to go, ‘Hmmmm,’ and ‘Wooo!

Not a morning person, is she?” a lazy voice drawled. Maddie dropped her hand to stare into Sam Roberts’s amused face. He sat across from Mitch, long, denim-clad legs stretched out, one hand hugging a coffee cup. Of course. What was breakfast with Mitch if not another new humiliation? This town was custom-made to put her in awkward situations. She glared at Mitch, who grinned like the cat who ate the canary. “Do you ever have breakfast alone?” He shrugged. “They’re big fans of the drop-in.” “From the looks of her, she should be in a much better mood,” Sam said, clearly entertained. Maddie crossed her arms over her breasts. She might as well be naked in her skimpy tank top and cotton shorts. “No need to be shy.” Sam winked at her. “I saw you last night, although you were considerably less rumpled.” She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it polite to allow a girl some dignity?” “What do you mean, last night?” Mitch asked at the same time, eyes narrowed on Sam. A muscle jumped in his forearm as his fingers tightened around his mug. “Don’t even tell me that’s what you were wearing.” “I was sitting on the front porch when he came home.” She ran her hand through her disheveled hair, getting caught in the wild mass of tangles. Sam gave Mitch a sly, devious smile. “Not my fault you left her alone for just anyone to come take a peek.” Mitch’s attention snapped to Maddie. She refused to fidget under his scrutiny. One golden brow rose. Maddie huffed. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.” “Hmmmm . . .” Mitch gave her a through once-over. Maddie’s chin shot up. “This is your fault, not mine!” Sam scrubbed his blond, stubbled jaw. “She’s got a point.” “I suppose she does,” Mitch said, but his tone spoke of a different story. Those amber eyes told her without words that she’d be paying later with his own delicious brand of torture. She

Mi esperas ke kiam vi venos la vetero estos milda," řekla jazyková instruktorka na obrazovce videa a odmlčela se, aby nechala prostor pro překlad. Rimmer stále chodil. "Ehmmm... ufff...hmmmm... Moment... tohle vím ...Úúúúú... počkej... neříkej mi to... Echmm..." Aniž by vzhledl od soustavy trysek, které vášnivě olejoval, Lister zapěl: "Doufám, že až přijdeš, bude vlídné počasí." "Doufám, že až přijdeš, bude vlídné počasí," souhlasila s ním žena z obrazovky. "Neříkej mi to. Na tohle bych přišel." "Bonvolu direkti min al kvinstela hotelo?" vložila se do toho instruktorka z nahraného pásku. "Ach ano, ahá... tohle bylo i posledně... vzpomínám si na to... Úúúú..." Lister si vytáhl šroubovák z úst: "Mohl byste mi, prosím, ukázat cestu k pětivězdičkovému hotelu?" "To je určitě spatně. Totálně, naprosto a úplně, totálně špatně." "Mohl byste mi, prosím," řekla instruktorka, "ukázat cestu k pětihvězdičkovému hotelu?" "Listere - mohl bys, prosím tě, držet hubu?" "Jenom ti pomáhám." "Já žádnou pomoc nepotřebuju.

By my hand and for the good of the state; the bearer has done what has been done. Hmmmm ~~~ one should be careful what one writes for one never knows into whose hands it may fall.

Hmmmm...What God can't handle doesn't exist. Don't limit Him with your thoughts and words.

One minute she was facing the table, the next she was in his arms, his mouth pressed to hers, his arms crushing her against him. Hmmmm. Luscious. She giggled. He pulled back. “Are you laughing? Is something funny?” His voice held a decidedly affronted tone. “I think you’re luscious,” she whispered. “That’s not funny.” She giggled again. “We’ll discuss it later.” He continued with his kiss. By the time he was finished, she couldn’t think, much less laugh. He appeared satisfied with her reaction. Arrogant man.

Tinkering can sometimes look like acting silly, making a mess, or giving a high five. It can also look like quiet thoughts, a furrowed brow, and a deep “hmmmm” as you try to figure out the next steps.

female circumcision, practiced in many countries, which is responsible for ruining the sexual gratification of millions of Muslim women. Hmmmm…

Later in the day, Holly frowned at her reflection in the mirror. “This can’t be right!” Holly muttered to herself. She looked like a cross between a panda bear and a raccoon. She had tried to apply a more advanced version of makeup than she was used to, and it was not going well. “Smokey eye, my foot! I look like I have two black eyes.” She had not done the proper shading with her eye shadow, and now her large green eyes were encased with a deep black color that spanned her entire eyelid. “Maybe I should try a different one,” Holly mused aloud. She sat in William’s bedroom at his dresser. She already had on her pretty crushed velvet black dress and a small heart-shaped diamond pendant. It had been William’s birthday gift to her last year. “Let me re-read this article again to see if I can make sense of these instructions.” Holly read her magazine article out loud. “Which Greek Goddess are you? Athena, Venus, or Aphrodite? Check out our makeup tips below to turn heads at your next event!” “Hmmmm, that sounds soooooo good, if only I was better at applying makeup.” She had decided to try their Aphrodite look and had been trying to apply the eyeliner to give her a smoky eye effect. Holly had to wash her face four times already and start over because each time was worse than the last. “Concentrate, Holly, or you’ll be late for the gala. This is your last chance; it’s do or die time!” she warned her reflection in the mirror. “So, it says to put the light grey eyeshadow on the inner one-third of my eyelids. Hmmm, maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know where the inner third is.” She got an idea and went to William’s desk. Looking around, she found a ruler. “Ah-ha! Eureka, I got it!” She went back to her position at his dresser and closed her eyes for a quick, small prayer, then held the ruler up to measure her eye. “Ah-ha! Twenty-one millimeters. So, that means the inner one-third of my eye must be from my nose out seven millimeters . . . right about HERE!” Holly expertly applied the light grey eye shadow to the inner third of her eyelids. “What a big improvement already! Wow! I’m not a panda bear anymore! Ok, one-third down, two-thirds to go . . . I can do this!” Reading further, she said, “Ok, now apply the dark grey eye shadow to the next third of your eye, finishing with the dark brown eye shadow on the outer third of your eyelid.” Holly expertly followed the instructions and sat back in her chair, stunned. She looked beautiful! She had achieved the desired effect, and now her green eyes were enhanced to perfection. “Wow, wow, wow!” Holly felt encouraged to keep going. She read the next instructions. “‘Now, apply blush to your face with an emphasis on contouring your cheekbones.’” “‘Contouring my cheekbones? Who do they think I am, Rembrandt?” Holly said with a groan. Holly gingerly picked up her blush container as if it were about to bite her. She decided another quick prayer wouldn’t go amiss. With a deep breath she muttered, “Ok, I’m going in!” She glanced nervously at the picture in the magazine and tried her hardest to follow it along her cheekbones. “That turned out pretty good!” Holly turned her face this way and that, examining it. It may not have been exactly as in the picture, but the blush now accentuated her beautiful high cheekbones. “Whew! Only the lip left, thank goodness! You got this, Holly!” She encouraged her reflection in the mirror.

Do you know why people eventually stop marrying? Stop seeking companionship altogether? Hmmmm, do you?” “Because they grow cranky?” “No. If only it were that simple. It is because of trust. Trust, my dear, is like a fine piece of silver. It erodes over time and loses its luster. What was once precious and unique begins to rust and all at once becomes plain and tawdry, a thing to be ashamed of. Losing the ability to trust takes its toll on you. It is the heart rusting.

Bill: What was north of you at that point? Randy: Thule, Greenland. Bill: Thule, Greenland! Okay, hmmmm,

Dolphins work on the reward system,” I explained. “When they’ve had enough to eat, that’s a wrap.” I shrugged. The director eyed me with a frown, and I realized that he was playing a role himself, the role of the stereotypical director. Hollywood is full of them. Bald-headed, short, and heavyset, he had a white moustache and goatee, an electric megaphone, and—of all things—a gold cigarette holder with a 100 mm filter cigarette in it. The only part of his costume missing was a pith helmet, which was probably optional. “Hmmmm,” he said as though musing to himself, “like actors, then.

I've heard it's hard to pee when someone's watching. If I got to be there for it, I might as well check out the equipment. I hope you're not shy. Or embarrassed. I mean -" i waggled my pinky in the air. "I've heard men can be really sensitive about that." "I'm not worried in the least." His gaze ran down And lingered at my crotch. "I admit it will be interesting to see of the carpet matches the drapes. Not to mention the hedges are trimmed or if they grow wild. Hmmmm. Wonder if there are any hedges at all?

And you lay the old folder out. "Hmmmm. I say, we've had a good look at this, Keith, and it does show some promise. By the way, do you make a good cup of tea?" I said yes, but not for you. I walked off with my folio--it was green, I remember--and I dumped it in the garbage can when I got downstairs. That was my final attempt to join society on their terms.

Kate Losse: He had kind of an ironic way of saying it. It wasn’t a totally flat, scary “domination.” It was funny. It’s only when you think about a much bigger scale of things that you’re like, Hmmmm: Are people aware that their interactions are being architected by a group of people who have a certain set of ideas about how the world works and what’s good? Ezra Callahan: “How much was the direction of the internet influenced by the perspective of nineteen-, twenty-, twenty-one-year-old well-off white boys?” That’s a real question that sociologists will be studying forever. Kate Losse: I don’t think most people really think about the impact that the values of a few people now have on everyone.

The contradiction of a belief, ideal or system of values, causes cognitive dissonance that can be resolved by changing the challenged belief yet, instead of effecting change, the resultant mental stress restores psychological consonance to the person, by misperception, rejection or refutation of the contradiction, seeking moral support from people who share the contradicted beliefs or acting to persuade other people that the contradiction is unreal” Hence a mob if you are familiar with social media. You know how this goes … you post some new belief or idea that you are contemplating. Rather than discussion or addressing the belief itself, often those responding just simply turn to attacking your character, your background, or just overall ganging up on you to tell you that you are wrong. Rarely will someone engage in actual discussion of the idea itself. You know what I am talking about. We have all had someone tag in their friends or maybe we have done it ourselves. Hmmmm …

As I said, thanks is one. Also try, We’re different; Good to know; Hmmmm, I’ll think about that; and if they say something offensive, just say, Go Badgers and don’t follow up with anything

The Spirit of Christmas The Boys finished their cider and handed the vendor the cups, smacking their lips and wiping their mouths on their sleeves. The towering Vendor smiled down on them. “And a Very Merry Christmas to you two young Gents.” Jonas scowled up at him, “Christmas is a bunch of bunk, just meant for the rich. Come on Jamey.” Little James Nicholas tipped his hat to the Vendor and his eyes shined angelically when he replied, “And a Merry Christmas to you too Sir!” Jonas led the way as they raced the snowy sidewalks of New York. In his heart Jonas knew that they were late but the cider warmed him inside and he didn’t mind the risk. Mr. Angel watched them run, knowing his work was cut out for him. “Christmas a bunk, hm-mmm! I’ve some work to do with these lads and not much time to do it in.” He glanced up at the heavens calculating the time before Christmas. He then tipped his hat to the vendor as he munched the delicious cheese. The Cheese Vendor watched the kindly man depart, knowing there was indeed goodness abound in the world tonight. “Thank ye kind Sir!” The tall Toymaker waved back at him over his shoulder, while keeping the two young dashing lads in sight. “And may the Spirit of Christmas haunt your home with joy.” The Cheese Vendor chuckled to himself. “A joyful haunting? Be there such a thing?” Mr. Angel followed along after the boys. He passed a poor couple and thrust the bag of cheese into their hands. The Poor Man’s face shined with pleasure, “Thank you and bless you sir.” He nodded back at them with a smile. Ahead of him, Jonas and James rushed towards the corner. They raced past a fruit vendor and each of them snatched a piece of fruit from the boxes on display. The Fruit Vendor screamed after them, “Hey, you! Stop thieves!” A New York Policeman witnessing the theft and blew his whistle. Then he shouted after them. “Stop thieves!” He immediately took up the chase, through the down pouring snow. Mr. Angel could be seen in the background keeping pace behind the policeman. The two young boys raced along the sidewalk, twisting their way between passers-by, their eyes frantically glancing behind them at the large pursuing policeman. Suddenly Mr. Thorn, a large, burley man dressed in black blocked their way and took them both by the collars. “So there you are!” He snatched the apple quickly from James’ hand. “What have we here?” He was about to take a bite of it, when he saw the officer racing towards them. “It’s all right officer. I have the young scoundrels and I’ll make full restitutions for their thievery.” He quickly fished coins from his pocket and with a conning smile, put them in the hand of the frowning Policeman. “And a little extra for your trouble, my good man. It’s such a small crime and the criminals so . . . minor.” The burly policeman rocked back and forth considering and then grunted, after all it was Christmas. “Very well sir. I’ll give these to the Vendor but I catch either of you snatching again, it’s behind bars with you and a good strong workhouse. You got me!” Jonas glanced down at his worn out boots, his face red with shame. “Oh yes sir.” James followed suit and then glanced up into the gruff face of the law. “Sorry, we were just hungry!

thanks is one. Also try, We’re different; Good to know; Hmmmm, I’ll think about that; and if they say something offensive, just say, Go Badgers and don’t

Listen. The Sinspire is nearly sixty yards high, one thick Elderglass cylinder. You know those, you tried to jump off one about two months ago. Goes down another hundred feet or so into a glass hill. It’s got one door at street level, and exactly one door into the vault beneath the tower. One. No secrets, no side entrances. The ground is pristine Elderglass; no tunneling through it, not in a thousand years.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “Requin’s got at least four dozen attendants on each floor at any given time, plus dozens of table minders, card dealers, and waiters. There’s a lounge on the third floor where he keeps more out of sight. So figure, at minimum, fifty or sixty loyal workers on duty with another twenty to thirty he can call out. Lots of nasty brutes, too. He likes to recruit from ex-soldiers, mercenaries, city thieves, and such. He gives cushy positions to his Right People for jobs well done, and he pays them like he was their doting mother. Plus, there are stories of dealers getting a year’s wages in tips from lucky blue bloods in just a night or two. Bribery won’t be likely to work on anyone.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “He’s got three layers of vault doors, all of them ironshod witchwood, three or four inches thick. Last set of doors is supposedly backed with blackened steel, so even if you had a week to chop through the other two, you’d never get past the third. All of them have clockwork mechanisms, the best and most expensive Verrari stuff, private designs from masters of the Artificers’ Guild. The standing orders are, not one set of doors opens unless he’s there himself to see it; he watches every deposit and every withdrawal. Opens the door a couple times per day at most. Behind the first set of doors are four to eight guards, in rooms with cots, food, and water. They can hold out there for a week under siege.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “The inner sets of doors don’t open except for a key he keeps around his neck. The outer doors won’t open except for a key he always gives to his majordomo. So you’d need both to get anywhere.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “And the traps…they’re demented, or at least the rumors are. Pressure plates, counterweights, crossbows in the walls and ceilings. Contact poisons, sprays of acid, chambers full of venomous serpents or spiders…One fellow even said that there’s a chamber before the last door that fills up with a cloud of powdered strangler’s orchid petals, and while you’re choking to death on that, a bit of twistmatch falls out and lights the whole mess on fire, so then you burn to a crisp. Insult to injury.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “Worst of all, the inner vault is guarded by a live dragon attended by fifty naked women armed with poison spears, each of them sworn to die in Requin’s service. All redheads.” “You’re making that up, Jean.” “I wanted to see if you were listening. But what I’m saying is, I don’t care if he’s got a million solari in there, packed in bags for easy hauling. I’m inclined to the idea that this vault might not be breakable, not unless you’ve got three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about.” “Right.” “Do you have three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about?” “No, I’ve got you, me, the contents of our coin purses, this carriage, and a deck of cards.

Hmmmm, and how do you want me to respond to this? I’m trying real hard here to help you, but y’all done lost y’all damn minds. If this is love, Dear God, keep that shit far the fuck away from me.

Hmmmm. Tylee didn’t make that particular pie that you just ate. It’s probably the cyanide, or maybe it’s Sly’s brain matter. Both of them were in the pie you just ate.

New to the ship, hmmmm? You have very nice eyes." "If he asks to buy them, haggle. You can usually get double his first offer.

Hmmmm. Let's see," he said, his voice low. "First I'd push you down on the bed. Then I'd slide over you and kiss you from your neck up." I made a low moan in my throat. "I like that.. "I'd take my hand and press it to your cheek and look you in the eye. Then I'd tell you that you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. That I think you're brilliant and kind and that seeing you is the highlight of my entire week. That when you're on your way, I'm already dreading you leaving and when I'm with you I'm happy.