Knot Related Quotes

The best music for her was always the stuff you could relate to, the stuff that spoke directly to you and twisted and knotted itself so far into your life you couldn't tell where art ended and reality began.

The physical and the psychological. They were related, interwoven—two strands of experience, or stimulae, that became knotted.

Everyone is dazed. Screaming silently, making endless cups of tea. Grief is bewilderment. Grief is circling rooms and talking to unnamed relatives. Grief is a permanent headache and knotted stomach. Grief is sluggish time, staring at strangers on the street and thinking 'how can you act like nothing's happened?'. Grief is being angry that the sun is still shimmering away, smiling in the sky.

Isabel's relations with her mother and sister were like those knots you get in necklaces. You try to tease them out and end up putting the chain back in the jewelry box.

In spite of all the value which may belong to the true, the positive, and the unselfish, it might be possible that a higher and more fundamental value for life generally should be assigned to pretence, to the will to delusion, to selfishness, and cupidity. It might even be possible that WHAT constitutes the value of those good and respected things, consists precisely in their being insidiously related, knotted, and crocheted to these evil and apparently opposed things—perhaps even in being essentially identical with them.

He was shocked, about the same time, when someone died from a heart attack at a family wedding, to hear a relative doubt the existence of God.

The whole thing starts with a single knot and needles. A word and pen. Tie a loop in nothing. Look at it. Cast on, repeat the procedure till you have a line that you can work with. It’s a pattern made of relation alone, my patience, my rhythm, till empty bights create a fabric that can be worn, if you’re lucky and practised. It’s never too late to pick up dropped stitches... (from "How to Knit a Poem")

In 2001 he surprised the staff of Muñiz Hospital in Buenos Aires by asking for a jar of water and then proceeding to wash the feet of twelve patients hospitalised with AIDS-related complications. He then kissed their feet.

Most people relate to themselves as storytellers. They usually have no use for poems, and although the occasional “because” or “in order that” gets knotted into the thread of life, they generally detest any brooding that goes beyond that; they love the orderly sequence of facts because it has the look of necessity, and the impression that their life has a “course” is somehow their refuge from chaos. It now came to Ulrich that he had lost his elementary, narrative mode of thought to which private life still clings, even though everything in public life has already ceased to be narrative and no longer follows a thread, but instead spreads out as an infinitely interwoven surface.

All great world movements begin with a little knot of people who, in their individual lives, and in their relations to each other, realize the ideal that is to be...To live truth is better than to utter it. Isaiah would have prophesied in vain, had he not gathered round him a little band of disciples who lived according to his ideal...Again, what would the teachings of Jesus have amounted to had he not collected a body of disciples who made it their life-aim to put his teachings into practice? You will perhaps think I am laying out a mighty task far above your powers and aspirations. It is not so. Every great change in individual and social conditions begins small, among simple, earnest people, face to face with the facts of life. Ask yourselves seriously, 'Why should not the coming change begin with us?

Look, cell phone geolocation data shows very few clustering anomalies for this hour and climate. And that’s holding up pretty much across all major metro areas. It’s gone down six percentage points since news of the Karachi workshop hit the Web, and it’s trending downward. If people are protesting, they aren’t doing it in the streets.” He circled his finger over a few clusters of dots. “Some potential protest knots in Portland and Austin, but defiance-related tag cloud groupings in social media put us within the three-sigma rule—meaning roughly sixty-eight percent of the values lie within one standard deviation of the mean.

Only a few days after my encounter with the police, two patrolmen tackled Alton Sterling onto a car, then pinned him down on the ground and shot him in the chest while he was selling CDs in front of a convenience store, seventy-five miles up the road in Baton Rouge. A day after that, Philando Castile was shot in the passenger seat of his car during a police traffic stop in Falcon Heights, Minnesota, as his girlfriend recorded the aftermath via Facebook Live. Then, the day after Castile was killed, five policemen were shot dead by a sniper in Dallas. It felt as if the world was subsumed by cascades of unceasing despair. I mourned for the family and friends of Sterling and Castille. I felt deep sympathy for the families of the policemen who died. I also felt a real fear that, as a result of what took place in Dallas, law enforcement would become more deeply entrenched in their biases against black men, leading to the possibility of even more violence. The stream of names of those who have been killed at the hands of the police feels endless, and I become overwhelmed when I consider all the names we do not know—all of those who lost their lives and had no camera there to capture it, nothing to corroborate police reports that named them as threats. Closed cases. I watch the collective mourning transpire across my social-media feeds. I watch as people declare that they cannot get out of bed, cannot bear to go to work, cannot function as a human being is meant to function. This sense of anxiety is something I have become unsettlingly accustomed to. The familiar knot in my stomach. The tightness in my chest. But becoming accustomed to something does not mean that it does not take a toll. Systemic racism always takes a toll, whether it be by bullet or by blood clot.

You know he was dealing drugs?’ asked Hunter. ‘Yes, small time, I’m told.’ ‘I wonder whether that could be related though, if he was murdered, that is?’ ‘It’s certainly one line of enquiry but we have several at the moment and, as I say, I have no real evidence that he was murdered. All I have is the knowledge that his knot wouldn’t just untie itself.’ Hunter agreed to

Then I ran to her and our relatives laughed. The knots of bystanders were horrified at the loss of her expensive tusk ornaments, but with my hand firmly clasped in hers she reminded them, with her face beaming,'When has it ever been a virtue to be rich in wealth and poor in people?' The relatives nodded. They understood her very well- why have heaven an earth when you have no one to share it with?

How quietly experience slips away unnoticed, camouflaged by it relative unimportance. Then at some point you step back and take a look and what's in front of you is a tangled wad of string. All the un-importants rolled together in a loose knot, to be recognized as your very own and cherished or mistaken for trash and discarded. And if you're lucky, it hits you; that knot of string, wound and intertwined is your life, and savoring it is what you want to do

Rather, it was written by tying knots on colourful cords called quipus. Each quipu consisted of many cords of different colours, made of wool or cotton. On each cord, several knots were tied in different places. A single quipu could contain hundreds of cords and thousands of knots. By combining different knots on different cords with different colours, it was possible to record large amounts of mathematical data relating to, for example, tax collection and property ownership.2

In spite of all the value which may belong to the true, the positive, and the unselfish, it might be possible that a higher and more fundamental value for life generally should be assigned to pretense, to the will to delusion, to selfishness, and cupidity. It might even be possible that what constitutes the value of those good and respected things, consists precisely in their being insidiously related, knotted, and crocheted to these evil and apparently opposed things—perhaps even in being essentially identical with them.

The next day, I started getting dressed at three for the rehearsal. The beautiful cherry red suit had black stitching, and I had taken the skirt to a seamstress to have it shortened to a sexy upper-midthigh length--an unfortunate habit I’d picked up while watching too much Knots Landing in the late 1980s. I was relatively slender and not the least bit stacked on top, and my bottom was somewhat fit but wildly unremarkable. If I was going to highlight any feature of my anatomy, it would have to be my legs. When I arrived at the rehearsal at the church, my grandmother kissed me, then looked down and said, “Did you forget the other half of your suit?” The seamstress had gotten a little overzealous.

That exactly is how my father and mother met and became man and wife. There were no home ceremonials, such as the seeking and obtaining of parental consent, because there were no parent; no conferences by uncles and grand-uncles, or exhortations by grandmothers and aunts; no male relatives to arrange the marriage knot, nor female relations to herald the family union, and no uncles of the bride to divide the bogadi (dowry) cattle as, of course, there were no cattle. It was a simple matter of taking each other for good and or ill with the blessing of the ‘God of Rain’. The forest was their home, the rustling trees their relations, the sky their guardian and the birds, who sealed the marriage contract with the songs, the only guests. Here they stablished their home and names it Re-Nosi (We-are-alone). [41]

What works instead is thinking about the world as a network of events. Simple events, and more complex events that can be disassembled into combinations of simpler ones. A few examples: a war is not a thing, it’s a sequence of events. A storm is not a thing, it’s a collection of occurrences. A cloud above a mountain is not a thing, it is the condensation of humidity in the air that the wind blows over the mountain. A wave is not a thing, it is a movement of water, and the water that forms it is always different. A family is not a thing, it is a collection of relations, occurrences, feelings. And a human being? Of course it’s not a thing; like the cloud above the mountain, it’s a complex process, where food, information, light, words, and so on enter and exit. . . . A knot of knots in a network of social relations, in a network of chemical processes, in a network of emotions exchanged with its own kind.

January 1787 On the day we arrived at Condorcet’s residence, I admired a portrait in the hall, my fingers itching to reproduce it in a sketch. “Who is this darling little girl? A relation of yours?” Unexpectedly, the question made my new husband cringe. “In a way.” His reaction made my stomach knot. Was this a bastard daughter? Given our arrangement, it wasn’t my right to know, but my voice was sharp. “In what way?” He glanced at me warily. “My mother was a good woman. A loving mother . . . but she kept me in dresses almost until the age of eight. Years after other boys were breeched and began to attend school. That portrait is not a girl. It’s me. You can, perhaps, easily imagine the cruel laughter and mockery of other boys that I endured.” Sensing a lingering pain, I took the liberty of reaching for his hand. “We should be rid of this portrait if it humiliates you.” “No, it educates me,” he said, squeezing my fingers. “That’s a good thing. The experience taught me the

In the end, what is most satisfying about the picture of space given by loop quantum gravity is that it is completely relational. The spin networks do not live in space; their structure generates space. And they are nothing but a structure of relations, governed by how the edges are tied together at the nodes. Also coded in are rules about how the edges may knot and link with one another. It is also very satisfying that there is a complete correspondence between the classical and quantum pictures of geometry. In classical geometry the volumes of regions and the areas of the surfaces depend on the values of gravitational fields. They are coded in certain complicated collections of mathematical functions, known collectively as the metric tensor. On the other hand, in the quantum picture the geometry is coded in the choice of a spin network. These spin networks correspond to the classical description in that, given any classical geometry, one can find a spin network which describes, to some level of approximation, the same geometry (Figure 27).

Healing childhood trauma is more difficult and complex because the child’s brain is not yet developed. And most children don’t have an adult nearby who is wise and supportive enough to help. On their own, a child will try to think his way out of the trauma, and that’s a task no child is up to. His mind can end up resembling a piece of twine that’s become hopelessly knotted and tangled. The child, and later the adult, will make twisted assumptions about himself, about the world, about life. He will blame himself for the events that caused the trauma. Ultimately, he will disconnect from himself and suffer from depression, dissociation, anxiety, insomnia, negative self-talk, and low self-esteem. Trauma specialists now believe that the experience doesn’t need to be a dramatic, life-endangering accident to cause post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD. Growing up in a dysfunctional family can cause relational or attachment trauma and lead to complex PTSD symptoms. In a dysfunctional family marked by emotional abuse or neglect, as I have come to view my family, a child is often scapegoated. The family, overtly and covertly, blames a child for their problems as a means of deflecting attention from the real problems. Instead of a single traumatic event, a child in this role might experience a continual barrage of subtle attacks on his worthiness, sense of belonging, and even his very identity. These attacks might come in the form of gaslighting, verbal abuse, and other obvious forms of manipulation. But they also can come in the form of thousands upon thousands of subtle negative facial expressions and sarcastic put-downs over years or decades.

The way in which the twists were entangled to knot up the mind-speech-body and the innate nature (relative self, prakruti), is the manner in which they will be untwisted.

Snakebird (colloquial): any bird of the genus Anhinga, so called for its serpentine neck. A predatory waterfowl able to alter its natural buoyancy when in water, sometimes showing only its head above the surface. Generally silent. Subsists on fish, which it impales upon its sharp, piercing bill. Often seen with wings upraised and outstretched in a fan over its head, for which reason it is often confused with a related species, the cormorant.

Isabel’s relations with her mother and sister were like those knots you get in necklaces. You try to tease them out and end up putting the chain back in the jewelry box.

experiencing occasional oxalate-related aches and pains somewhere in your body. Do you tend to get a stiff neck? In those of us with dietary oxalate overload, pain, knots, or stiffness in the top of the shoulders or in the upper or lower back are typical. Some people experience chronic or intermittent joint inflammation, gout, arthritis, carpal tunnel syndrome, or a more generalized

Some will have a scientific explanation, for example muscle spasms or migraines can be related to low magnesium levels, but some will have a unique meaning to us and it is down to us to decode them. I have a friend that has always said “By the time I get a mouth ulcer, I know that I have pushed myself too hard and my body is not getting enough nutrients to keep going.” I have taken note of that for myself. A cousin said that his stress always shows up as a feeling of toxins built up in knots in his shoulders. I recognize that one too!

When I come home, they’re coming with me, Stephen.” She waited for the response. And waited. Meridith’s fist knotted, clutching her cotton nightshirt. Why wasn’t he responding? She continued, “Their uncle hasn’t contacted them. He obviously won’t be interested in guardianship, and frankly, I don’t think he’s fit anyway. And there isn’t anyone else. They’d go to foster care, probably be separated, and I can’t let that happen.” “But—we’re getting married.” He sounded stunned. “They’re my siblings.” “They were strangers two months ago.” “Well, they’re not now. They’re blood relatives, Stephen, and I care about them.” He gave a deep sigh. “I understand you feel a certain obligation. You’re really caught in a bad spot. But where am I in this decision? It’s our future, not just yours, and this isn’t the kind of decision you make alone, Meridith. Not when you’re engaged.” “I should’ve said something sooner, I know. But you were knee deep in taxes, and I—” “We’re talking about raising three children.” “You’ll love them, I know you will. And the oldest is thirteen— four years, and she’ll be off to college.” “You’re missing the point. Don’t I get a say?” He was right, of course. But what if he decided he couldn’t do it? “I’m sorry, Stephen, I know you’re right. But what do you want me to do? They’re my siblings. I can’t abandon them. I thought you’d understand; you know about my childhood. How can I not offer them the stability of a good home?” “It’s very admirable of you, but—” “You’d be a wonderful father, Stephen.” “I’m not ready for that.” The words, so pointedly spoken, made her reel. He hadn’t gotten upset, wasn’t yelling. He was calm and cool like always, but he wasn’t budging. “What am I supposed to do then, Stephen?” Even after three deep breaths, after closing her eyes and counting backward from ten, she wasn’t ready for his response. “I guess you have a choice to make.

Aluminum Hulls In 1931 England, aluminum was used in the construction of the Diana II, a 55 foot express cruiser, which is still in use. Aluminum is non-magnetic and is almost never found in the elemental state. As a ductile metal it is malleable and has about one-third the density and stiffness of steel. Aluminum is a corrosion resistant, easily machined, cast, drawn and extruded, however the procedure to weld it is more difficult and different from other metals. In 1935 the Bath Iron Works in Maine, built an experimental hull for Alcoa. Named the Alumette, it was floated to the James River in Newport News, Virginia for the purpose of testing its structural properties. The MV Sacal Borincano was an all-aluminum constructed Roll on Roll off, or Ro-Ro ship, designed to carry 40 highway trailers between Miami, FL and San Juan. PR. The relatively small ship was 226 feet in length and has a displacement of 2000 tons. The South Atlantic and Caribbean Line Inc. operated the vessel which was constructed by American Marine in 1967, with help from the Reynolds Metal Company. The vessel was constructed completely of heli-arced aluminum plates to achieve a working speed of 14 knots with a diesel electric power plant of 3000 hp generating 2240kW.

Xander whispered, “How’s it going so far?” I shrugged. “He has a lot to say and I can’t tell him to be quiet without looking nuts.” Caleb laughed. “I’m sure he knows. He’s constantly reading your mind.” My head snapped up to Raphael. “Really? Like all the time?” Xander and Caleb nodded and I slumped in my seat. “Holy crap.” Xander sat up straight. “Something I should know?” Shifting, I knotted my hands. “I…no.” Lie. Complete and utter lie. “Is it Xander related?” His voice turned to a sexy rumble. He grinned when he saw my cheeks redden. Raphael chose this time to speak. “Yes, Alexander, quite often, in fact. Her thoughts of you are usually inappropriate.

2. "HOW COULD anything originate out of its opposite? For example, truth out of error? or the Will to Truth out of the will to deception? or the generous deed out of selfishness? or the pure sun-bright vision of the wise man out of covetousness? Such genesis is impossible; whoever dreams of it is a fool, nay, worse than a fool; things of the highest value must have a different origin, an origin of THEIR own—in this transitory, seductive, illusory, paltry world, in this turmoil of delusion and cupidity, they cannot have their source. But rather in the lap of Being, in the intransitory, in the concealed God, in the 'Thing-in-itself— THERE must be their source, and nowhere else!"—This mode of reasoning discloses the typical prejudice by which metaphysicians of all times can be recognized, this mode of valuation is at the back of all their logical procedure; through this "belief" of theirs, they exert themselves for their "knowledge," for something that is in the end solemnly christened "the Truth." The fundamental belief of metaphysicians is THE BELIEF IN ANTITHESES OF VALUES. It never occurred even to the wariest of them to doubt here on the very threshold (where doubt, however, was most necessary); though they had made a solemn vow, "DE OMNIBUS DUBITANDUM." For it may be doubted, firstly, whether antitheses exist at all; and secondly, whether the popular valuations and antitheses of value upon which metaphysicians have set their seal, are not perhaps merely superficial estimates, merely provisional perspectives, besides being probably made from some corner, perhaps from below—"frog perspectives," as it were, to borrow an expression current among painters. In spite of all the value which may belong to the true, the positive, and the unselfish, it might be possible that a higher and more fundamental value for life generally should be assigned to pretence, to the will to delusion, to selfishness, and cupidity. It might even be possible that WHAT constitutes the value of those good and respected things, consists precisely in their being insidiously related, knotted, and crocheted to these evil and apparently opposed things—perhaps even in being essentially identical with them. Perhaps! But who wishes to concern himself with such dangerous "Perhapses"! For that investigation one must await the advent of a new order of philosophers, such as will have other tastes and inclinations, the reverse of those hitherto prevalent—philosophers of the dangerous "Perhaps" in every sense of the term. And to speak in all seriousness, I see such new philosophers beginning to appear.

His soul leaped with joy to see about each neck four or five scapularies and around each waist a knotted girdle, and to behold the procession of corpses and ghosts in guingón habits. The senior sacristan made a small fortune selling—or giving away as alms, we should say—all things necessary for the salvation of the soul and the warfare against the devil, as it is well known that this spirit, which formerly had the temerity to contradict God himself face to face and to doubt His words, as is related in the holy book of Job, who carried our Lord Christ through the air as afterwards in the Dark Ages he carried the ghosts, and continues, according to report, to carry the asuang of the Philippines, now seems to have become so shamefaced that he cannot endure the sight of a piece of painted cloth and that he fears the knots on a cord.

Joining the world of shapes to the world of numbers in this way represented a break with the past. New geometries always begin when someone changes a fundamental rule. Suppose space can be curved instead of flat, a geometer says, and the result is a weird curved parody of Euclid that provides precisely the right framework for the general theory of relativity. Suppose space can have four dimensions, or five, or six. Suppose the number expressing dimension can be a fraction. Suppose shapes can be twisted, stretched, knotted. Or, now, suppose shapes are defined, not by solving an equation once, but by iterating it in a feedback loop. Julia, Fatou, Hubbard, Barnsley, Mandelbrot-these mathematicians changed the rules about how to make geometrical shapes. The Euclidean and Cartesian methods of turning equations into curves are familiar to anyone who has studied high school geometry or found a point on a map using two coordinates. Standard geometry takes an equation and asks for the set of numbers that satisfy it. The solutions to an equation like x^2 + y^2 = 1, then, form a shape, in this case a circle. Other simple equations produce other pictures, the ellipses, parabolas, and hyperbolas of conic sections or even the more complicated shapes produced by differential equations in phase space. But when a geometer iterates an equation instead of solving it, the equation becomes a process instead of a description, dynamic instead of static. When a number goes into the equation, a new number comes out; the new number goes in, and so on, points hopping from place to place. A point is plotted not when it satisfies the equation but when it produces a certain kind of behavior. One behavior might be a steady state. Another might be a convergence to a periodic repetition of states. Another might be an out-of-control race to infinity.

The offshore north wind built to a gale force. My poor dogs. They would hit a wind-polished spot, loose traction, and literally get rolled into a knot, requiring a frustrating untangling, under something lessthan good picnic conditions. Other times, away would go the sled skidding sideways, with me firmly attached, until it struck an immoveable drift or a crusted snow patch, and over I went, taking the entire team with me, ending, one time, a half block off the trail. Wha, storm. What an experience. Blinding and, at times, breath-sucking Dangerous, scary, but exciting and exhilarating at the same time. One remembrance I have kept—all these years—is thankfulness for the relatively mild temperature at the time. And another is an absolute, set-it-in-concrete admiration for my dogs. In the course of many untangles I rearranged my front end. Genghis, my old faithful, went in front with Kiana. Bandit was placed back in swing. We went. In spite of roll! overs, roll-ups, wraparounds, and tangles, we went. And even when a couple of males—Kuchik and Casper—repeatedly attempted to dive behind snowdrifts, out of the punishing tempest, we went. How gratifying it was to witness my years of training pay off. Uncounted hours: back on Kenai Lake and Resurrection River flats, driving this never-say-die team head-on into fiendish, violent snowstorms.

Friends The divine bliss of almighty is friend the relation boundless of any trend friends help us to solve all worries they wrap up our difficulties as furries. Friend is a best companion, ofcourse a guide they have no qualms to make us pride friends are gems hard to find nurturing this relation is the greatest task assigned. Friends stand together in joy and sorrows they take away all our pain and harrows till infinity live for friend, for him die limit this knot bonding beyond the sky. Distances cannot keep friends apart they reside in the fugal of heart never breakup, treat them with love and care remember enmities are everywhere friends are rare Though not a blood relation nor by birth It is the most pious bonding on the earth for my dearest friends, God I do thee pray always keep them happy, motivated and gay. ~Jugesh Singh Thakur Author ," The Craved Emotions" From:- Pogal Paristan

The troll language was very difficult to learn, bearing no relation to Njorden or any other language I had heard... As I learned more and more, I was reminded of times I had to pick out the stitches of a particularly complicated piece of sewing. One word might unravel a whole set of words, and then I'd come to a knot and have to begin all over again.

[Warren] Harding diligently worked the knots of America's body politic from the moment he took office, soothing conservatives by resizing the federal government for peacetime and adopting a pro-business outlook, soothing his Republican base by raising tariffs and lowering taxes, soothing the left by releasing from prison the socialist icon Eugene Debs and other radicals rounded up during Palmer's Red Scare, soothing the battered farm belt with an emergency tariff and federal protection for farm cooperatives, soothing labor with public works programs to ease unemployment and by cajoling the steel industry into abandoning its inhumane practice of twelve-hour shifts. Harding soothed the isolationist and nativist majority in America with tighter immigration policies and a foreign policy emphasizing legitimate national interests over crusading idealism. He soothed international tensions by normalizing relations with Germany and other former enemy states, and by convincing the world's leading naval powers to reduce tonnage at his Washington Disarmament Conference, the first gathering of its kind and a remarkable, unexpected success.

The consequences of white fragility include hours of agonizing as well as far more extreme consequences such as being seen as a threat and a troublemaker. These biased assessments often lead to job loss, stress-related illness, criminal charges, and institutionalization. To choose to survive in any way deemed necessary is thus an empowered choice. It is white people’s responsibility to be less fragile; people of color don’t need to twist themselves into knots trying to navigate us as painlessly as possible.

Kate was too preoccupied to notice. She was absently braiding her hair into complicated knots, then unbraiding it again. “I really don’t get it, boys. What’s the point of learning this mush?” It suddenly occurred to Reynie what had struck him as familiar. “I think it’s connected to the hidden messages! Remember that phrase we heard on the Receiver? ‘Brush your teeth and kill the germs’? That has to be related to the hygiene lesson, don’t you think?” “Hey, you’re right!” Kate said, brightening. “And now that I think of it, on our first day here we overheard the kids in S.Q.’s class going on and on about the market this, the market that—” “The Free Market Drill,” said Sticky. “Exactly! And ‘market’ was the very first word we heard come through Mr. Benedict’s Receiver, remember?” Sticky nodded—of course he remembered—but Kate only shrugged. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said. “Anyway, the classes are obviously linked to the hidden messages. So the question is how it all fits together.” “The sooner we become Messengers, the sooner we find out!” said Reynie excitedly. “We aren’t Messengers yet, so hold your horses,” said Sticky, who was still trying to recover from his wounded feelings and felt a bit testy. “We’ve only been here a few days.” “It’s true,” Reynie sighed. “All right, let’s report this to Mr. Benedict.” They prepared to send a report to the mainland, only to be thwarted by the presence of Mr. Curtain on the plaza. And then, just as Mr. Curtain was finally going inside, a couple of Executives came out for a leisurely stroll over the Institute grounds. They

You must be a good girl.”  “Yes, Uncle,” she said.  “A pity, though,” he said. “His assets and mine combined, Cass. Ah, well, Mr. Westhaven will be a baron one day, though the present baron is said to be in excellent health and is a relatively young man. He could live another twenty years.” Chapter 13 MR. Westhaven did not after all wear his best London finery that evening. His shirt did not have quite the quantity of lace at the wrists that he would wear to a London ball, and he instructed his disappointed valet that a simple knotting of his neckcloth would be more appropriate than any of the more artistic creations the man had been perfecting over the past few months. And he chose a coat more to be comfortable in than to give the impression

I wanted that bold nonchalance for myself. I wanted to feel confident when I showed a man affection, not just within the walls of an apartment or the relative safety of a gay bar, not just during Pride. I wanted to kiss a man whenever and wherever I felt like it—on a sidewalk in the rain, at a crowded bus stop, in a shopping mall parking lot on a Monday afternoon. I wanted to kiss a man whose presence made the rest of the world vanish into irrelevance, a man whose touch erased every tinge of fear and every knot of knee-jerk shame I'd felt for having the audacity to display a love like mine in a world like ours.

Will you want an estimate of all the livestock, my lord?” “Naturally.” “Not my horse.” A new voice entered the conversation. All four men looked to the doorway, where Kathleen stood as straight and rigid as a blade. She stared at Devon with open loathing. “The Arabian belongs to me.” Everyone rose to his feet except for Devon, who remained seated at the desk. “Do you ever enter a room the ordinary way?” he asked curtly, “or is it your usual habit to slink past the threshold and pop up like a jack-in-the-box?” “I only want to make it clear that while you’re tallying the spoils, you will remove my horse from the list.” “Lady Trenear,” Mr. Fogg interceded, “I regret to say that on your wedding day, you relinquished all rights to your movable property.” Kathleen’s eyes narrowed. “I’m entitled to keep my jointure and all the possessions I brought to the marriage.” “Your jointure,” Totthill agreed, “but not your possessions. I assure you that no court in England will regard a married woman as a separate legal being. The horse was your husband’s, and now it belongs to Lord Trenear.” Kathleen’s face went skull-white, and then red. “Lord Trenear is stripping the estate like a jackal with a rotting carcass. Why must he be given a horse that my father gave to me?” Infuriated that Kathleen would show him so little deference in front of the others, Devon stood from the desk and approached her in a few strides. To her credit, she didn’t cower, even though he was twice her size. “Devil take you,” he snapped, “none of this is my fault.” “Of course it is. You’ll seize on any excuse to sell Eversby Priory because you don’t want to take on a challenge.” “It’s only a challenge when there’s some small hope of success. This is a debacle. The list of creditors is longer than my bloody arm, the coffers are empty, and the annual yields have been cut in half.” “I don’t believe you. You’re planning to sell the estate to settle personal debts that have nothing to do with Eversby Priory.” Devon’s hands knotted with the urge to destroy something. His rising bloodlust would only be satisfied with the sound of shattering objects. He had never faced a situation like this, and there was no one to give him trustworthy advice, no kindly aristocratic relation, no knowledgeable friends in the peerage. And this woman could only accuse and insult him.

You’ll seize on any excuse to sell Eversby Priory because you don’t want to take on a challenge.” “It’s only a challenge when there’s some small hope of success. This is a debacle. The list of creditors is longer than my bloody arm, the coffers are empty, and the annual yields have been cut in half.” “I don’t believe you. You’re planning to sell the estate to settle personal debts that have nothing to do with Eversby Priory.” Devon’s hands knotted with the urge to destroy something. His rising bloodlust would only be satisfied with the sound of shattering objects. He had never faced a situation like this, and there was no one to give him trustworthy advice, no kindly aristocratic relation, no knowledgeable friends in the peerage. And this woman could only accuse and insult him. “I had no debt,” he growled, “until I inherited this mess. God’s bollocks, did your idiot husband never explain any of the estate’s issues to you? Were you completely ignorant of how dire the situation was when you married him? No matter--someone has to face reality, and Christ help us all, it seems to be me.” He turned his back on her and returned to the desk. “Your presence isn’t wanted,” he said without looking back. “You will leave now.” “Eversby Priory has survived four hundred years of revolutions and foreign wars,” he heard Kathleen say contemptuously, “and now it will take but one self-serving rake to bring it all to ruins.” As if he were entirely to blame for the situation. As if he alone would be accountable for the estate’s demise. Damn her to hell. With effort, Devon swallowed back his outrage. Deliberately he stretched out his legs with relaxed indolence and glanced at his brother. “West, are we quite certain that Cousin Theo perished in a fall?” he asked coolly. “It seems far more likely that he froze to death in the marital bed.” West chuckled, not above the enjoyment of a malicious quip. Totthill and Fogg, for their part, kept their gazes down. Kathleen crossed the threshold and sent the door shuddering with a violent slam. “Brother,” West said with mock chiding, “that was beneath you.” “Nothing’s beneath me,” Devon replied, stone-faced. “You know that.