Mr Deeds Quotes

Jane: Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life-if ever I thought a good thought-if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer-if ever I wished a righteous wish-I am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for me, to be as happy as I can be on earth. Mr. Rochester: Because you delight in sacrifice. Jane: Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for content. To be privileged to put my arms round what I value-to press my lips to what I love-to repose on what I trust: is that to make a sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice.

I’ve watched hundreds of deed transfers take place right here on the steps of the Registry,” Michele mused. “At those moments of transfer, I’ve seen in the eyes of desperate sellers an emotional reconciliation of irrevocably relinquishing a homestead, a treasured dominion, willingly or otherwise. Perhaps all these deeds, Mr. Geoffrey…perhaps they, too, have their own soul, a predilection that would tell me more than what they say if only I had the capacity to ask.

And they just let you enter after their effort?" "What should they have done, Mr MacRieve?" "I know exactly what I would have done." "I know exactly how I would have retaliated.

Host: For those of you just tuning in, our guests tonight are the amazing Murder Magician, and his lovely minion, The Assistant... Assistant: Charmed, I'm sure Host: Who recently killed The Rumor. And you were awarded the Oppenheimer prize for villainy at last week's annual summit for dastardly deeds-- what are you going to do with all that money? Murder Magician: Well, I'm so glad you asked that-- because I spent all the money on this giant MURDERBOT, and I've been dying to show it off! Assistant: It's true... every penny. Host: Wow! That's impressive! So what does it do? Murder Magician: Well, Mr. Clark... it murders people. Laughter. Murder Magician: I'm serious. Assistant: He is.

So wicked do destruction and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr Lorry and Miss Pross, while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible crime.

A woman’s magazine quiz: Question: You decide to do the dread deed and just as things are starting to get hot he comes, rolls over, and asks, “Was it good for you?” You: a. Say, “God, yes! That was the best seventeen seconds of my life” b. Say, “Sure, as good as it gets for me with a man.” c. Put a Certs in your navel and say, “That’s for you, Mr. Bunnyman. You can have it on your way back up, after the job is finished

Is your power still working?” I asked Mr. Kent. “I don’t know. Do you find me handsome?” Mr. Kent returned. “Yes,” I replied, following it with a growl. “Everything is clearly in order here,” Mr. Kent said.

It’s almost indecent,” Mr. Kent said with a sigh. “What is?” “The way you look at each other.

Thank you for saving my life,” Mr. Braddock said stonily, his eyes unbearably sad. “I will not forget it.” “And I will send you daily reminders to make sure,” Mr. Kent replied.

Age before beauty, Mr. MacRieve. If you think you can fit." "Only humans call me Mr. MacRieve." "I'm not a human. So would you like me to call you Bowen, or Bowe for short?" "Bowe is what my friends call me, so you doona." "No problem. I have a slew of other more fitting names for you. Most of them end in er." "You in the tunnel first." "Don't you think it'd be unbecoming for me to be on my hands and knees in front of you? Besides, you don't need my lantern to see in the dark, and if you go first, you'll be sure to lose me and get to the prize first." "I doona like anything, or anyone, at my back. And you'll have your little red cloak on, so I will no' be able to see anything about you that might be... unbecoming." "Twisting my words? I'll have you know that I am criminally cute - " "Then why hide behind a cloak?" "I'm not hiding. And I like to wear it. Fine. Beauty before age.

Another portal crackled open. “Good God, where are we, the sun?” Mr. Kent shouted. “No,” our whole group answered in unison. He shot me an apologetic look. “That one was meant to be rhetorical.

But she couldn’t read Mr. Mackenzie. He didn’t let anyone behind his barriers, not easily. But when he did . . . When he did, worlds would unfold.

I would do terrible things for the ones I love, Miss Wyndham.

Mr. Orr: "Lord of a thousand worlds am I, And I reign since time began; And night and day, in cyclic sway, Shall pass while their deeds I scan. Yet time shall cease, ere I find release, For I am the Soul of Man.

A 1945 film called Japan: Know Your Enemy, directed by Frank Capra (who directed several popular motion pictures during the 1930s and ’40s, including Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and It’s a Wonderful Life)

One always feels the need to wash one’s hands after being forced to deal with the methods of U.S. interventionism. It is so unpleasant and filthy that one shudders. When one hears the pious nonsense of the Jewish-led world plutocracy over the radio or reads it in the press, one need only to look behind the scenes to feel pity for the miseries of mankind. That such a man has the impudence to judge us, to call on God and the world as witnesses of the purity of his deeds, to incite war and send innocent people singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” to battle for his filthy financial interests can only fill anyone with even the most primitive sense of decency with the deepest horror. Were there only such people in the world, one would have to despise humanity. "Mr. Roosevelt Cross-Examined", 30 November 1941

What are you—” I paused and it hit me. “Oh heavens, what did you do?” He shrugged innocently. “Let’s just say … that I’ve been … in a sense … blackmailing key members of London society and editors of the scandal sheets into preserving your reputation.” I gaped at him. “And by ‘in a sense,’ I mean that’s exactly what happened.” He smiled broadly at the room. “You—you’re serious?” I found myself half gasping the words but also not finding it terribly hard to believe. Mr. Kent never hid his worse qualities. He wore them like badges.

Mr. Thomas Lanman, of St. Michael's, killed two slaves, one of whom he killed with a hatchet, by knocking his brains out. He used to boast of the commission of the awful and bloody deed. I have heard him do so laughingly, saying, among other things, that he was the only benefactor of his country in the company, and that when others would do as much as he had done, we should be relieved of "the d-----d [n***ers].

Mr. Browne’s precept for October was: YOUR DEEDS ARE YOUR MONUMENTS.

Mr. Kent raised his brows. “What are they asking?” “For me to heal a little girl.” “My God, the brutes, the monsters,” he mocked.

It was a strange feeling, to want to throw something at him and protect him from dangerous flying objects at the same time.

Let no one else use you, Mr. Ai,” the king was saying. “Keep clear of factions. Tell your own lies, do your own deeds. And trust no one.

I plant a little notion of kindness so that at least it's there, this seedling buried inside them. Will it take root? Will it flower? Who knows? But either way, I've done my deed." -Mr. Browne

Why, Miss Wyndham,” Mr. Kent replied, looking as chaste and good as a debutante at her presentation to the Queen. “I think we can all agree it’s fair to punish these guilty people feigning innocence every day of their lives, all while helping a wrongfully accused innocent. I would certainly never ask you, but I suspect you agree.” “You cannot simply blackmail people into liking me!

I know I should not take such liberties with an unmarried woman.…” “Especially when you’ve alluded to your indecent past.” Mr. Kent nodded soberly. “I have. Before I met you, I went to brothels, gambling halls, scandalous music halls, all sorts of indecent places.” “And let me guess, ever since you met me, you’ve changed?” He shook his head. “No, I just want to do these indecent things with you.

I’m terribly sorry, my acquaintance here hardly knows how to talk to people. Please, let’s start again and allow me to introduce myself. My name is Nicholas Kent, and accompanying me is the lovely Miss Wyndham, the frowning Mr. Braddock, the eternally calm Miss Chen, and the … Well, that’s Mr. Redburn. How are you?” “Irritated,” she replied and another crack of bright light twisted across the sky.

Why are you here?” he asked, staring around me at Mr. Kent. Mr. Kent laughed uncomfortably. “Why does anyone go to a gambling house?” “To gamble,” Sebastian answered. “To find information for our plan,” I muttered, Mr. Kent’s power inadvertently affecting me as well. “What plan?” Sebastian asked. I glared at Mr. Kent. “Nothing, nothing at all.” “No one seems to understand what a rhetorical question is these days,” Mr. Kent said to the skies.

Tell her she must not thank me …” Dr Greysteel waved his hand vigorously as if a reputation for generous deeds and benevolent actions were a little like a mosquito and he hoped in this way to prevent one from landing on him.

There were five different doors and I didn't know which to take. Mr. Kent was throwing them open, calling down each in turn. "Lady Atherton, have you gone this way?" "Yes" was the distant reply at the third door. "Oh, splendid, thank you.

Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life – if ever I thought a good thought – if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer – if ever I wished a righteous wish, I am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for me, to be as happy as I can be on earth.

On behalf of those you killed, imprisoned, tortured, you are not welcome, Erdogan! No, Erdogan, you’re not welcome in Algeria. We are a country which has already paid its price of blood and tears to those who wanted to impose their caliphate on us, those who put their ideas before our bodies, those who took our children hostage and who attempted to kill our hopes for a better future. The notorious family that claims to act in the name of the God and religion—you’re a member of it—you fund it, you support it, you desire to become its international leader. Islamism is your livelihood Islamism, which is your livelihood, is our misfortune. We will not forget about it, and you are a reminder of it today. You offer your shadow and your wings to those who work to make our country kneel down before your “Sublime Door.” You embody and represent what we loathe. You hate freedom, the free spirit. But you love parades. You use religion for business. You dream of a caliphate and hope to return to our lands. But you do it behind the closed doors, by supporting Islamist parties, by offering gifts through your companies, by infiltrating the life of the community, by controlling the mosques. These are the old methods of your “Muslim Brothers” in this country, who used to show us God’s Heaven with one hand while digging our graves with the other. No, Mr. Erdogan, you are not a man of help; you do not fight for freedom or principles; you do not defend the right of peoples to self-determination. You know only how to subject the Kurds to the fires of death; you know only how to subject your opponents to your dictatorship. You cry with the victims in the Middle East, yet sign contracts with their executioners. You do not dream of a dignified future for us, but of a caliphate for yourself. We are aware of your institutionalized persecution, your list of Turks to track down, your sinister prisons filled with the innocent, your dictatorial justice palaces, your insolence and boastful nature. You do not dream of a humanity that shares common values and principles, but are interested only in the remaking of the Ottoman Empire and its bloodthirsty warlords. Islam, for you, is a footstool; God is a business sign; modernity is an enemy; Palestine is a showcase; and local Islamists are your stunned courtesans. Humanity will not remember you with good deeds Humanity will remember you for your machinations, your secret coups d’état, and your manhunts. History will remember you for your bombings, your vengeful wars, and your inability to engage in constructive dialogue with others. The UN vote for Al-Quds is only an instrument in your service. Let us laugh at this with the Palestinians. We know that the Palestinian issue is your political capital, as it is for many others. You know well how to make a political fortune by exploiting others’ emotions. In Algeria, we suffered, and still suffer, from those who pretend to be God and act as takers and givers of life. They applaud your coming, but not us. You are the idol of Algerian Islamists and Populists, those who are unable to imagine a political structure beyond a caliphate for Muslim-majority societies. We aspire to become a country of freedom and dignity. This is not your ambition, nor your virtue. You are an illusion You have made beautiful Turkey an open prison and a bazaar for your business and loved ones. I hope that this beautiful nation rises above your ambitions. I hope that justice will be restored and flourish there once again, at least for those who have been imprisoned, tortured, bombed, and killed. You are an illusion, Erdogan—you know it and we know it. You play on the history of our humiliation, on our emotions, on our beliefs, and introduce yourself as a savior. However, you are a gravedigger, both for your own country and for your neighbors. Turkey is a political miracle, but it owes you nothing. The best thing you can do

What are you—” I paused and it hit me. “Oh heavens, what did you do?” He shrugged innocently. “Let’s just say … that I’ve been … in a sense … blackmailing key members of London society and editors of the scandal sheets into preserving your reputation.” I gaped at him. “And by ‘in a sense,’ I mean that’s exactly what happened.” He smiled broadly at the room. “You—you’re serious?” I found myself half gasping the words but also not finding it terribly hard to believe. Mr. Kent never hid his worse qualities. He wore them like badges.

Old Rekohu’s claim to singularity, however, lay in its unique pacific creed. Since time immemorial, the Moriori’s priestly caste dictated that whosoever spilt a man’s blood killed his own mana - his honor, his worth, his standing & his soul. No Moriori would shelter, feed, converse with, or even see the persona non grata. If the ostracized murderer survived his first winter, the desperation of solitude usually drove him to a blowhole on Cape Young, where he took his life. Consider this, Mr. D’Arnoq urged us. Two thousand savages (Mr. Evans’s best guess) enshrine “Thou Shalt Not Kill” in word & in deed & frame an oral “Magna Carta” to create a harmony unknown elsewhere for the sixty centuries since Adam first tasted the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. War was as alien a concept to the Moriori as the telescope is to the Pygmy. Peace, not a hiatus betwixt wars but millennia of imperishable peace, rules these far-flung islands. Who can deny Old Rekohu lay closer to More’s Utopia than our States of Progress governed by war-hungry princelings in Versailles & Vienna, Washington & Westminster? “Here,” declaimed Mr. D’Arnoq, “and where only, were those elusive phantasms, those noble savages, framed in flesh & blood!” (Henry, as we later made our back to the Musket confessed, “I could never describe a race of savages too backwards to throw a spear as ‘noble.

Was anyone unclothed?” Mr. Kent said sarcastically, clearly not expecting an affirmative answer. However. “A bit,” my uncooperative mouth responded and I tried to cover it with a yelp. This was absurd. Both of them were absurd, tonight was absurd, and I was, assuredly, absurd.

She isn’t just any woman. She’s different.” “So every man has said since time immemorial.” “Yes, that’s true. I’ve met plenty of women, Mr. Sutton. From a young age, I have had mistresses whose beauty and skills would astound you. Skills they taught to a young man, because I was ever so rich. I also got to know them—courtesans are living, breathing women, you might be surprised to learn. With dreams and ambitions, some longing for a better life, one in which they won’t have to rely on wealthy men’s sons for survival. I became quite good friends with some of the ladies and am still. And then I met Violet.” Mr. Sutton was listening but striving to look uninterested. “Another courtesan?” “She’s neither one thing nor the other. Which is why I say she’s different. She’s not from the upper-class families whose mothers throw their daughters at me with alarming ruthlessness. She’s not a courtesan, selling her body and skills in exchange for diamonds and riches. She’s not a street girl from the gutter, selling her body to survive. She’s not a middle-class daughter, striving to live spotlessly and not shame her parents. Violet faces the world on her own terms, making a living the best she can with the skills she has. And everywhere, everyone has tried to stop her. They’ve used her body to pay their debts. They’ve used her cleverness to bring them clients. They’ve used her skills at understanding people to make them money. Everyone in her entire life has used her in every capacity she has, and yet, she still stands tall and faces the world. They’ve beaten her down at every turn, and still she rises. This is a woman of indomitable spirit. And I want to set her free.

Granted, Mr. Kent was also making somewhat of a spectacle of himself, tasting an unfamiliar pastry and attempting to get its name and ingredients from the poor vendor. Mr. Braddock wore a pained expression, trying to divert Mr. Kent, and Miss Chen seemed to be pretending she had no connection to either of them.

Well,” she says, “I’ll run down to breakfast now, and then I’ll start straight for Mr. Lothrop’s.” “‘Deed, that ain’t the ticket, Miss Mary Jane,” I says, “by no manner of means; go before breakfast.” “Why?” “What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all for, Miss Mary?” ‘Well, I never thought—and come to think, I don’t know. What was it?“ “Why, it’s because you ain’t one of these leather-face people. I don’t want no better book than what your face is. A body can set down and read it off like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and face your uncles, when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never——” “There, there, don‘t! Yes, I’ll go before breakfast—I’ll be glad to.

That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in consequence of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow's personal property, as has been already described, they were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch as the freedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are among the first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to observe, that this action should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code of laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid down as the main-springs of all Nature's deeds and actions: the said philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady's proceedings to matters of maxim and theory: and, by a very neat and pretty compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight any considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling.

Lately, in order to win you over, I’ve been finding myself thinking, What would Mr. Braddock do in this situation? And it took me far too long to realize what that meant: I wanted to tell you that I would not be interfering anymore. I don’t pretend to understand why it is that you would want to be with him, but even someone without my superior detective skills would notice how you gravitate toward each other.

The Declaration of Independence is not only an American document. It follows on Magna Carta and the Bill of Rights as the third great title-deed on which the liberties of the English-speaking people are founded…. The political conceptions embodied in the Declaration of Independence are the same as those expressed at that time by Lord Chatham and Mr. Burke and handed down to them by John Hampden and Algernon Sidney.

I leave his house feeling blissed. It is not the same feeling like when you get a present from someone, you buy things you desire, or you receive good news. It is something intrinsic that stems from solicitude, which triggers your conscience to carry out something good - in my case, helping Mr Mario. That is how righteousness works. It does not only give pleasure to the receiver (of good action), but to the giver as well.

Yes, I know that. And you shall always have my friendship as well. But I do not wish to press anyone into loving me. The person who loves me will see me for who I am, good and bad, and say, Yes, that’s the handsome gentleman I have been hoping to meet all along, that handsome, charming, witty, disarming, genius, remarkable, dashing—” “Mr. Kent.” “See? That is not going to be you, Ev—Miss Wyndham. Which is why I will leave you to the most ridiculous man in London—who is made much less ridiculous by you. Indeed, I might even say he is tolerable.

Consider this, Mr. D’Arnoq urged us. Two thousand savages (Mr. Evans’s best guess) enshrine “Thou Shalt Not Kill” in word & in deed & frame an oral “Magna Carta” to create a harmony unknown elsewhere for the sixty centuries since Adam tasted the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. War was as alien a concept to the Moriori as the telescope is to the Pygmy. Peace, not a hiatus betwixt wars but millennia of imperishable peace, rules these far-flung islands. Who can deny Old Rēkohu lay closer to More’s Utopia than our States of Progress governed by war-hungry princelings in Versailles & Vienna, Washington & Westminster? “Here,” declaimed Mr. D’Arnoq, “and here only, were those elusive phantasms, the noble savages, framed in flesh & blood!

She leant back while the more earnest members of the club began to misconstrue her. The female mind, though cruelly practical in daily life, cannot bear to hear ideals belittled in conversation, and Miss Schlegel was asked however she could say such dreadful things, and what it would profit Mr. Bast if he gained the whole world and lost his own soul. She answered: “Nothing, but he would not gain his soul until he had gained a little of the world.” Then they said no they did not believe it, and she admitted that an overworked clerk may save his soul in the superterrestrial sense, where the effort will be taken for the deed, but she denied that he will ever explore the spiritual resources of this world, will ever know the rarer joys of the body, or attain to clear and passionate intercourse with his fellows.

I’ll tell you. Because you went gallivantin’ this afternoon and got yoreself into trouble through yore own fault, Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Kennedy and the other men are out tonight to kill that thar nigger and that thar white man, if they catch them, and wipe out that whole Shantytown settlement. And if what that Scallawag says is true, the Yankees suspected sumpin’ or got wind somehow and they’ve sont out troops to lay for them. And our men have walked into a trap. And if what Butler said warn’t true, then he’s a spy and he is goin’ to turn them up to the Yankees and they’ll git kilt just the same. And if he does turn them up, then I’ll kill him, if it’s the last deed of m’ life. And if they ain’t kilt, then they’ll all have to light out of here for Texas and lay low and maybe never come back. It’s all yore fault and thar’s blood on yore hands.

It could be said of Mr Schaeffer that in his life he'd done only one really bad thing: he'd killed a man. The circumstances of that deed are unimportant, expect to say that the man deserved to die and that for it Mr Schaeffer was sentenced to ninety-nine years and a day. For a long while - for many years, in fact - he had not thought of how it was before he came to the farm. His memory of those times was like a house where no one lives and where the furniture has rotted away. But tonight it was as if lamps had been lighted through all the gloomy dead rooms. It had begun to happen when he saw Tico Feo coming through the dusk with his splendid guitar. Until that moment he had not been lonesome. Now, recognising his loneliness, he felt alive. He had not wanted to be alive. To be alive was to remember brown rivers where the fish run, and sunlight on a lady's hair.

It could be said of Mr Schaeffer that in his life he'd done only one really bad thing: he'd killed a man. The circumstances of that deed are unimportant, expect to say that the man deserved to die and that for it Mr Schaeffer was sentenced to ninety-nnie years and a day. For a long while - for many years, in fact - he had not thought of how it was before he came to the farm. His memory of those times was like a house where no one lives and where the furniture has rotted away. But tonight it was as if lamps had been lighted through all the gloomy dead rooms. It had begun to happen when he saw Tico Feo coming through the dusk with his splendid guitar. Until that moment he had not been lonesome. Now, recognising his loneliness, he felt alive. He had not wanted to be alive. To be alive was to remember brown rivers where the fish run, and sunlight on a lady's hair.

Her first really great role, the one that cemented the “Jean Arthur character,” was as the wisecracking big-city reporter who eventually melts for country rube Gary Cooper in Frank Capra’s Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936). It was the first of three terrific films for Capra: Jean played the down-to-earth daughter of an annoyingly wacky family in Capra’s rendition of Kaufman and Hart’s You Can’t Take It With You (1938), and she was another hard-boiled city gal won over by a starry-eyed yokel in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). “Jean Arthur is my favorite actress,” said Capra, who had successfully worked with Stanwyck, Colbert and Hepburn. “. . . push that neurotic girl . . . in front of the camera . . . and that whining mop would magically blossom into a warm, lovely, poised and confident actress.” Capra obviously recognized that Jean was often frustrated in her career choice.

Mr. Watson inquired who saw the assault committed. Master Hugh told him it was done in Mr. Gardner's ship-yard at midday, where there were a large company of men at work. "As to that," he said, "the deed was done, and there was no question as to who did it." His answer was, he could do nothing in the case, unless some white man would come forward and testify. He could issue no warrant on my word. If I had been killed in the presence of a thousand colored people, their testimony combined would have been insufficient to have arrested one of the murderers. Master Hugh, for once, was compelled to say this state of things was too bad. Of course, it was impossible to get any white man to volunteer his testimony in my behalf, and against the white young men. Even those who may have sympathized with me were not prepared to do this. It required a degree of courage unknown to them to do so; for just at that time, the slightest manifestation of humanity toward a colored person was denounced as abolitionism, and that name subjected its bearer to frightful liabilities. The watchwords of the bloody-minded in that region, and in those days, were, "Damn the abolitionists!" and "Damn the n****rs!" There was nothing done, and probably nothing would have been done if I had been killed.

During the last three years and a half, hundreds of American men, women, and children have been murdered on the high seas and in Mexico. Mr. Wilson has not dared to stand up for them...He wrote Germany that he would hold her to "strict accountability" if an American lost his life on an American or neutral ship by her submarine warfare. Forthwith the Arabic and the Gulflight were sunk. But Mr. Wilson dared not take any action...Germany despised him; and the Lusitania was sunk in consequence. Thirteen hundred and ninety-four people were drowned, one hundred and three of them babies under two years of age. Two days later, when the dead mothers with their dead babies in their arms lay by the scores in the Queenstown morgue, Mr. Wilson selected the moment as opportune to utter his famous sentence about being "too proud to fight." Roosevelt threw his speech script to the floor and continued in near absolute silence. Mr Wilson now dwells at Shadow Lawn. There should be shadows enough at Shadow Lawn: the shadows of men, women, and children who have risen from the ooze of the ocean bottom and from graves in foreign lands; the shadows of the helpless who Mr. Wilson did not dare protect lest he might have to face danger; the shadows of babies gasping pitifully as they sank under the waves; the shadows of women outraged and slain by bandits; the shadows of troopers who lay in the Mexican desert, the black blood crusted round their mouths, and their dim eyes looking upward, because President Wilson had sent them to do a task, and then shamefully abandoned them to the mercy of foes who knew no mercy. Those are the shadows proper for Shadow Lawn: the shadows of deeds that were never done; the shadows of lofty words that were followed by no action; the shadows of the tortured dead.

adolescence; as never, surely, were the certain-coursed, dynamic roller-coasters of youth. For most men and women these thirty years are taken up with a gradual withdrawal from life, a retreat first from a front with many shelters, those myriad amusements and curiosities of youth, to a line with less, when we peel down our ambitions to one ambition, our recreations to one recreation, our friends to a few to whom we are anaesthetic; ending up at last in a solitary, desolate strong point that is not strong, where the shells now whistle abominably, now are but half-heard as, by turns frightened and tired, we sit waiting for death. At forty, then, Merlin was no different from himself at thirty-five; a larger paunch, a gray twinkling near his ears, a more certain lack of vivacity in his walk. His forty-five differed from his forty by a like margin, unless one mention a slight deafness in his left ear. But at fifty-five the process had become a chemical change of immense rapidity. Yearly he was more and more an "old man" to his family--senile almost, so far as his wife was concerned. He was by this time complete owner of the bookshop. The mysterious Mr. Moonlight Quill, dead some five years and not survived by his wife, had deeded the whole stock and store to him, and there he still spent his days, conversant now by name with almost all that man has recorded for three thousand years, a human catalogue, an authority upon tooling and binding, upon folios and first editions, an accurate inventory of a thousand authors whom he could never have understood and had certainly never read. At sixty-five he distinctly doddered. He had assumed the melancholy habits of the aged so often portrayed by the second old man in standard Victorian comedies. He consumed vast warehouses of time searching for mislaid spectacles. He "nagged" his wife and was nagged in turn. He told the same jokes three or four times a year at the family table, and gave his son weird, impossible directions as to his conduct in life. Mentally and materially he was so entirely different from the Merlin Grainger of twenty-five that it seemed incongruous that he should bear the same name. He worked still In the bookshop with the assistance of a youth, whom, of course, he considered

On Mr. Phipps' discovering the place of my concealment, he cocked his gun and aimed at me. I requested him not to shoot and I would give up, upon which he demanded my sword. I delivered it to him, and he brought me to prison. During the time I was pursued, I had many hair breadth escapes, which your time will not permit you to relate. I am here loaded with chains, and willing to suffer the fate that awaits me. I here proceeded to make some inquiries of him after assuring him of the certain death that awaited him, and that concealment would only bring destruction on the innocent as well as guilty, of his own color, if he knew of any extensive or concerted plan. His answer was, I do not. When I questioned him as to the insurrection in North Carolina happening about the same time, he denied any knowledge of it; and when I looked him in the face as though I would search his inmost thoughts, he replied, 'I see sir, you doubt my word; but can you not think the same ideas, and strange appearances about this time in the heaven's might prompt others, as well as myself, to this undertaking.' I now had much conversation with and asked him many questions, having forborne to do so previously, except in the cases noted in parenthesis; but during his statement, I had, unnoticed by him, taken notes as to some particular circumstances, and having the advantage of his statement before me in writing, on the evening of the third day that I had been with him, I began a cross examination, and found his statement corroborated by every circumstance coming within my own knowledge or the confessions of others whom had been either killed or executed, and whom he had not seen nor had any knowledge since 22d of August last, he expressed himself fully satisfied as to the impracticability of his attempt. It has been said he was ignorant and cowardly, and that his object was to murder and rob for the purpose of obtaining money to make his escape. It is notorious, that he was never known to have a dollar in his life; to swear an oath, or drink a drop of spirits. As to his ignorance, he certainly never had the advantages of education, but he can read and write, (it was taught him by his parents,) and for natural intelligence and quickness of apprehension, is surpassed by few men I have ever seen. As to his being a coward, his reason as given for not resisting Mr. Phipps, shews the decision of his character. When he saw Mr. Phipps present his gun, he said he knew it was impossible for him to escape as the woods were full of men; he therefore thought it was better to surrender, and trust to fortune for his escape. He is a complete fanatic, or plays his part most admirably. On other subjects he possesses an uncommon share of intelligence, with a mind capable of attaining any thing; but warped and perverted by the influence of early impressions. He is below the ordinary stature, though strong and active, having the true negro face, every feature of which is strongly marked. I shall not attempt to describe the effect of his narrative, as told and commented on by himself, in the condemned hole of the prison. The calm, deliberate composure with which he spoke of his late deeds and intentions, the expression of his fiend-like face when excited by enthusiasm, still bearing the stains of the blood of helpless innocence about him; clothed with rags and covered with chains; yet daring to raise his manacled hands to heaven, with a spirit soaring above the attributes of man; I looked on him and my blood curdled in my veins.

When we are at home again they shall be reset.” Then he had added some little husband’s joke as to a future daughter-in-law who should wear them. Nevertheless she was not sure whether the fact of their being so handed to her did not make them her own. She had spoken a second time to Mr. Mopus, and Mr. Mopus had asked her whether there existed any family deed as to the diamonds. She had heard of no such deed, nor did Mr. Camperdown mention such a deed. After reading the letter once she read it a dozen times; and then, like a woman, made up her mind that her safest course would be not to answer it.

Mr. Hazlett was small, slightly humpbacked from bending myopically over deeds and briefs, and he had the complexion of a corpse. His bony body looked like a skeleton clad in black, his stiff white hair reared from his pate like a shaving brush, and he wore white spats.

Earl Paulk Says, Jesus is Not the Only Begotten Son of God: Earl Paulk claims that Christians “are the begotten of God, even as Jesus Himself is begotten of God” (1). Paula White is the co-founder of Church Without Walls and the spiritual advisor to former President Donald Trump. She interviewed Larry Huch on her show Paula White Today (2). Mr. Hutch is the pastor of New Beginnings Church in Bedford, Texas (3). During their interview, Mr. Huch claims that Jesus is not the only begotten Son of God, and Ms. White agrees with him (4). John 3:16-19 says: God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have everlasting life. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved. He that believes on him is not condemned: but he that believes not is condemned already, because he has not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God. And this is the condemnation that the light has come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil (AKJV). Jesus became the only begotten Son of God when the Spirit of God impregnated the Virgin Mary. On the other hand, God formed Adam from dirt, and then he breathed life into him. So, we are a creation of God, not begotten Sons of God. References 1. Paulk, Earl. The Wounded Body of Christ, 1985, pp. 62, 92-95. 2. Zauzmer, Julie. “Paula White, Prosperity preacher once investigated by Senate, is controversial pick for inauguration.” 12-12-2016. The Washington Post. Accessed 05 May 2017. 3. “Home Page.” NB Church: New Beginnings. 4. Paula White. “Paula White, Larry Huch and FALSE TEACHING - EXPOSING CHARLATANS.” YouTube.

What was her disguise? For once, she [Verity] did not know. She was the female Mr. Twaddle-Thum dressed as a clerk pretending to be a reporter. If any of the staff recognized her as Robert Lark, none of them indicated it by look or deed.

Jack Harvey’s Adventures; or, The Rival Campers Among the Oyster Pirates. By Ruel Perley Smith. Illustrated $1.50 In “Jack Harvey’s Adventures,” Mr. Smith has shifted the scene of his story from the Maine coast to the shores of Chesapeake Bay; and has chosen for its main theme the evil deeds of the notorious oyster pirates of that region.

Fifty Best Rock Documentaries Chicago Blues (1972) B. B. King: The Life of Riley (2014) Devil at the Crossroads (2019) BBC: Dancing in the Street: Whole Lotta Shakin’ (1996) BBC: Story of American Folk Music (2014) The Weavers: Wasn’t That a Time! (1982) PBS: The March on Washington (2013) BBC: Beach Boys: Wouldn’t It Be Nice (2005) The Wrecking Crew (2008) What’s Happening! The Beatles in the U.S.A. (1964) BBC: Blues Britannia (2009) Rolling Stones: Charlie Is My Darling—Ireland 1965 (2012) Bob Dylan: Dont Look Back (1967) BBC: The Motown Invasion (2011) Rolling Stones: Sympathy for the Devil (1968) BBC: Summer of Love: How Hippies Changed the World (2017) Gimme Shelter (1970) Rumble: The Indians Who Rocked the World (2017) Cocksucker Blues (1972) John Lennon & the Plastic Ono Band: Sweet Toronto (1971) John and Yoko: Above Us Only Sky (2018) Gimme Some Truth: The Making of John Lennon’s “Imagine” Album (2000) Echo in the Canyon (2018) BBC: Prog Rock Britannia (2009) BBC: Hotel California: LA from the Byrds to the Eagles (2007) The Allman Brothers Band: After the Crash (2016) BBC: Sweet Home Alabama: The Southern Rock Saga (2012) Ain’t in It for My Health: A Film About Levon Helm (2010) BBC: Kings of Glam (2006) Super Duper Alice Cooper (2014) New York Dolls: All Dolled Up (2005) End of the Century: The Story of the Ramones (2004) Fillmore: The Last Days (1972) Gimme Danger: The Stooges (2016) George Clinton: The Mothership Connection (1998) Fleetwood Mac: Rumours (1997) The Who: The Kids Are Alright (1979) The Clash: New Year’s Day ’77 (2015) The Decline of Western Civilization (1981) U2: Rattle and Hum (1988) Neil Young: Year of the Horse (1997) Ginger Baker: Beware of Mr. Baker (2012) AC/DC: Dirty Deeds (2012) Grateful Dead: Long, Strange Trip (2017) No Direction Home: Bob Dylan (2005) Hip-Hop Evolution (2016) Joan Jett: Bad Reputation (2018) David Crosby: Remember My Name (2019) Zappa (2020) Summer of Soul (2021)

When all of this was over, she was never going anywhere more rural than Greenwich again. If she found Colin alive, she would go wherever he wanted. Or she would go to a leper colony and do good deeds there. Reggie wasn’t sure which she would promise. She wasn’t sure who she was bargaining with, or what they’d prefer. She should have asked Mr. Heselton, she thought, and felt a manic laugh bubble up in her throat.

Uh, right. Who do you propose that I should send to assassinate the President?” “I suggest you send a staff sergeant by the name of James Delaney. You make it seem like you’re questioning everyone under your command about where their loyalties are when it concerns their oath and the Constitution. If he is the patriotic American that I think he is, he’ll take the bait,” “Why him? Why not a member of the Special Forces?” “I have my reasons, which is something you don’t need to know. Now, are you going to do this?” “All right, fine. I will recruit Staff Sergeant Delaney. I will ask the Joint Chiefs to get their people to arrest the rest of the administration. Is there anything else, Mr. Evans?” “No, not right now. All I require is that you inform me when Delaney will be set to do the deed,” “I will do that,

What made you think this was a good idea?” Captain Goode shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Kent, this is a breach of our—” But Laura was still talking. “You did!” Laura whined. “When you were making the list of your favorite things about Evelyn, you said you admired her ability to sneak out!” "Kit, you know not to listen to me!” Mr. Kent scolded. “I taught you better than that.

Why in the world would you sit down to play cards with gentlemen who freely admitted they’d heard about your reputation for losing at the table?” Nigel wrinkled his nose right back at her. “They heard I was remarkably skilled at cards.” “When you’re not drowning yourself in a bottle of brandy, which, I hate to say, is something I’m afraid everyone knows you make a habit of doing most nights.” “I was delighted to accept the invitation after their flattering words,” Nigel continued as if Lucetta had not spoken. “And was doing quite well, but then . . . I’m afraid I got overly ambitious and lost everything on a single turn of the cards. To my relief, Mr. Silas Ruff was incredibly gracious. When he discovered I might not actually have the deed to Plum Hill readily available, he offered me another way to honor my debt to him.” Lucetta suddenly found it rather difficult to breathe. “You sat down to cards with Mr. Silas Ruff?” “Ah, wonderful, so you do know him.” Nigel smiled. “He spoke most highly of you, my dear, and learning you’re acquainted with him makes this so much easier to say.” “Makes what easier to say?” “That Mr. Ruff is perfectly willing to take something in lieu of the deed to Plum Hill—something he seems very anxious to acquire. . . . That something being . . . well . . . you.

September 12   Go, wash yourself seven times in the Jordan . . . and you will be cleansed. —2 Kings 5:10       The Lord of Israel will never heal an arrogant sinner who thinks he is better than others. In God’s view, there is only one class of sinners: the worst class. Whether publican or Pharisee, the Jewish Saul or the Syrian leper Naaman, every sinner must repent and believe in Jesus Christ. No proud sinner will ever be saved unless he first humbles himself and trusts in Christ alone. In 2 Kings 5, we read that Naaman came to Elisha with his own view of salvation. Asserting that he was a “first-class” sinner, he thought he should come through a different gate than others. He wanted a more dignified gospel, not the gospel of the cross. No, Naaman. You must surrender totally to God’s way of salvation. God had to humble the arrogant Naaman. So instead of sending Elisha personally to greet him, he sent Elisha’s servant Gehazi with the following message: “Mr. Naaman, it is clear that you are a leper. Here is the cure for your leprosy. Go down to the Jordan River—not to the rivers of Damascus, which you think have cleaner water—and immerse yourself in the Jordan seven times, and you will be healed.” Naaman was offended because Elisha did not give him preferential treatment. In fact, he almost missed his healing because of his pride. His wise servants, though, persuaded him to heed the prophet’s counsel. And so he humbled himself, went to the Jordan, and stripped off his regalia, displaying his leprosy for all to see. He immersed himself in the muddy waters of the Jordan seven times, according to the word of the man of God. Where there is obedience, there is faith. Where there is faith, there is obedience. And as he obeyed, Naaman was cured of his leprosy. If we seek salvation our own way, whether in materialism, philosophy, science, good deeds, or in any other religion, we will not find it. Jesus Christ alone is Savior. “Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to men by which we must be saved” (Acts 4:12). I urge you, do not be offended by the gospel and die in your sins. Follow Naaman into the river Jordan. Call upon the name of the Lord, and be washed clean.

When the incessant desire for expression about any of the infinite subjects (including God and Guru) through any of the endless modes of expression (in thoughts or deeds or words) drops away, the mental chatter will stop, thoughts will fall in a natural rhythm and peace, already there as the substratum will shine.

Let me confess ingenuously, I was a professor of religion at least a dozen of years before I knew any other way to eternal life, than to be sorry for my sins, and ask forgiveness, and strive and endeavour to fulfil the law, and keep the commandments, according as Mr Dod and other godly men had expounded them; and truly, I remember I was in hope I should at last attain to the perfect fulfilling of them; and, in the mean time, I conceived that God would accept the will for the deed; or what I could not do, Christ had done for me.

My deeds will kill me eventually,So I preparing for the best.

My deeds will kill me eventually,So I am preparing to end it as better as i can.

I tell him about the safe being open, how the money was gone, along with the deed I’d seen in Mr. Black’s breast pocket earlier in the day.

For love is not the high ideal of beauty, of sacrifice, of noble deeds and chaste embraces that I had imagined when once I dreamed of Mr Tiller. It is a dirty business, of wanting and struggling and making do, and being each other's comfort because the world is cruel and there are few who want to do right by you with no thought of their own needs.

I pray you do not judge me by what is written there..." Rosamund glanced down at the papers in her hands. "But if a man cannot be judged by his words, good sir, then pray, how does one judge him?" Mr. Nessuno stepped closer, his cerulean eyes capturing hers. "By his deeds, my lady, by his deeds." The sincerity of the statement made her catch her breath. She laughed to cover how very disconcerting she found his nearness. The smell of him reminded her of the chocolate kitchen, the headiness and rich spice. She stepped back and struck him lightly with the pages. "That is true, sir, unless, I assume, one is a correspondent. Then, surely, words--- the weapon he wields--- maketh the man?

father, Arthur. “What?” Clara said loudly, and Swan jerked from his thoughts as the room fell quiet. Clara turned to look at Swan, then back at Abigail. “He asked you to help move the lighthouse, and you said no?” “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Abigail said. Her voice was smooth, but Swan saw her hand shake slightly on her glass of water. “Relocating a lighthouse is a delicate and expensive process, especially one as precarious as Swan Light.” “It’s been there for years,” Clara said. “You had plenty of time before it got precarious. But now you’ll suddenly be able to find the money if Mr. Swan helps you find this deed you’re looking for?

The news presents only the bad side of humanity, Mr. Blade, and it does it on a global scale. It doesn’t report the millions of small, unreported acts of kindness that take place on a daily basis in communities. People help old ladies across the street, they bring their neighbors tea when they’re sick. You don’t hear about it because good news isn’t entertainment, even though it’s those deeds that hold society together. Bad news is a commodity and the media trade in that.

I made a sound, a sort of disbelieving tsk, and Jane spared me a pitying look. "The empire had arrived by then, with its borderlines and deeds and railroads and Maxim guns. I was not the only motherless, feral child running through the bush."    I was silent. I thought of Mr. Locke's lectures on Progress and Prosperity. There were never any orphan girls or stolen farms or Maxim guns in them.

A simple “no!” may suffice. Returning to our example, Fred may be told after all his arguments and conflict with the banker that he simply will not receive a loan. When Fred walks out of the bank, he has been set back and is in worse shape than he was when he entered, because he has tried to take one of his hoped-for steps toward climbing the mountain, and has been rebuffed. At the very least, he has lost one option. The banker might also, however, thwart Fred – and provide us with a disaster – in another way. He might give Fred a “yes!” answer, but one with so many strings attached that Fred can’t accept it. For example, Mr. Greenback might say, “Well, Fred, all right. You can have your loan. But you must agree to pay 60 percent interest, you must deed your automobile to us, and you must sell your mother’s house and put her in a nursing home so we can be assured that you won’t be messing around trying to help her when you’re supposed to be climbing that mountain.” Such “Yes, but” disasters are often better than a simple “No!” because they put the hero on the horns of a moral dilemma, and in making an ethical choice to turn down the crummy deal, he in effect brings on his own disaster. (Of such stuff are heroes often made.)

A man is known by his deeds and actions. His deeds are reflected by his destiny. A man has a choice to turn his hand into achieving good or evil. A man's choice can be problematic and this can lead his life to feel agony. Ambition can lead to prosperity even that is vanity.

Judge Chin found no mitigating factors. “In a white-collar fraud case such as this, I would expect to see letters from family and friends and colleagues. But not a single letter has been submitted attesting to Mr. Madoff’s good deeds or good character or civic or charitable activities. The absence of such support is telling.” Given Madoff’s age, Judge Chin acknowledged that any sentence above twenty years was effectively a life sentence.

He was a very private person, unemotional and undemonstrative in public. To a great degree he was unconcerned about his image, caring little for “glory” in the conventional sense. His gods were logic and reason. The character of Mr. Spock in the popular science-fiction series“Star Trek” could easily have been patterned after Spruance. The admiral competed not with others but with his own impossibly high selfexpectations, and that is the way he judged his successes and failures. A man who relied on deeds rather than words to make his mark, Spruance seemed oblivious to what posterity would think of him. He did not like to speak publicly, nor did he do much writing if he could avoid it. He authored no wordy, self-justifying memoirs. His achievements, intellect, and integrity were responsible for the great respect accorded him by his peers.

I suppose we always have Mr Jervis as well. After all, the envelope was found in his cupboard and he has no satisfactory explanation about how it got there. I know those Victorian melodramas always have the butler doing the dirty deed, but it would be nice and tidy if this time he actually had!

your world has managed
to bring out the worst in me no whirls and no swerves
and no dance of ecstasy i am not buying
your deeds Mr. Mowlavi stop with the preaching, they’re not getting through to me!