Prop Firm Quotes

He said, “I know somebody you could kiss.” “Who?” She realized his eyes were amused. “Oh, wait.” He shrugged. He was maybe the only person Blue knew who could preserve the integrity of a shrug while lying down. “It’s not like you’re going to kill me. I mean, if you were curious.” She hadn’t thought she was curious. It hadn’t been an option, after all. Not being able to kiss someone was a lot like being poor. She tried not to dwell on the things she couldn’t have. But now— “Okay,” she said. “What?” “I said okay.” He blushed. Or rather, because he was dead, he became normal colored. “Uh.” He propped himself on an elbow. “Well.” She unburied her face from the pillow. “Just, like—” He leaned toward her. Blue felt a thrill for a half a second. No, more like a quarter second. Because after that she felt the too-firm pucker of his tense lips. His mouth mashed her lips until it met teeth. The entire thing was at once slimy and ticklish and hilarious. They both gasped an embarrassed laugh. Noah said, “Bah!” Blue considered wiping her mouth, but felt that would be rude. It was all fairly underwhelming. She said, “Well.” “Wait,” Noah replied, “waitwaitwait.” He pulled one of Blue’s hairs out of his mouth. “I wasn’t ready.” He shook out his hands as if Blue’s lips were a sporting event and cramping was a very real possibility. “Go,” Blue said. This time they only got within a breath of each other’s lips when they both began to laugh. She closed the distance and was rewarded with another kiss that felt a lot like kissing a dishwasher. “I’m doing something wrong?” she suggested. “Sometimes it’s better with tongue,” he replied dubiously. They regarded each other. Blue squinted, “Are you sure you’ve done this before?” “Hey!” he protested. “It’s weird for me, ‘cause it’s you.” “Well, it’s weird for me because it’s you.” “We can stop.” “Maybe we should.” Noah pushed himself up farther on his elbow and gazed at the ceiling vaguely. Finally, he dropped his eyes back to her. “You’ve seen, like, movies. Of kisses, right? Your lips need to be, like, wanting to be kissed.” Blue touched her mouth. “What are they doing now?” “Like, bracing themselves.” She pursed and unpursed her lips. She saw his point. “So imagine one of those,” Noah suggested. She sighed and sifted through her memories until she found one that would do. It wasn’t a movie kiss, however. It was the kiss the dreaming tree had showed her in Cabeswater. Her first and only kiss with Gansey, right before he died. She thought about his nice mouth when he smiled. About his pleasant eyes when he laughed. She closed her eyes. Placing an elbow on the other side of her head, Noah leaned close and kissed her once more. This time, it was more of a thought than a feeling, a soft heat that began at her mouth and unfurled through the rest of her. One of his cold hands slid behind her neck and he kissed her again, lips parted. It was not just a touch, an action. It was a simplification of both of them: They were no longer Noah Czerny and Blue Sargent. They were now just him and her. Not even that. They were only the time that they held between them.

Mister God made everything, didn’t he?” There was no point in saying I didn’t really know. I said “Yes.” “Even the dirt and the stars and the animals and the people and the trees and everything, and the pollywogs?” The pollywogs were those little creatures we had seen under the microscope. I said, “Yes, he made everything.” She nodded her agreement. “Does Mister God love us truly?” “Sure thing,” I said. “Mister God loves everything.” “Oh,” she said. “well then, why does he let things get hurt and dead?” Her voice sounded as if she felt she had betrayed a sacred trust, but the question had been thought and it had to be spoken. “I don’t know,” I replied. “There’re a great many things about Mister God, we don’t know about?” “Well then,” she continued, “if we don’t know many things about Mister God, how do we know he loves us?” I could see this was going to be one of those times, but thank goodness she didn’t expect an answer to her question, for she hurried on: “Them pollywogs, I could love them till I bust, but they wouldn’t know, would they? I’m million times bigger than they are and Mister God is million times bigger than me, so how do I know what Mister God does?” She was silent for a little while. Later I thought that at this moment she was taking her last look at babyhood. Then she went on. “Fynn, Mister God doesn’t love us.” She hesitated. “He doesn’t really, you know, only people can love. I love Bossy, but Bossy don’t love me. I love the pollywogs, but they don’t love me. I love you Fynn, and you love me, don’t you?” I tightened my arm about her. “You love me because you are people. I love Mister God truly but he don’t love me.” It sounded to me like a death knell. “Damn and blast,” I thought. “Why does this have to happen to people? Now she’s lost everything.” But I was wrong. She had got both feet planted firmly on the next stepping stone. “No,” she went on, “no, he don’t love me, not like you do, its different, its millions of times bigger.” I must have made some movement or noise, for she levered herself upright and sat on her haunches and giggled. The she launched herself at me and undid my little pang of hurt, cut from the useless spark of jealousy with the delicate sureness of a surgeon. “Fynn, you can love better than any people that ever was, and so can I, cant I? But Mister God is different. You see, Fynn, people can only love outside, and can only kiss outside, but Mister God can love you right inside, and Mister God can kiss you right inside, so its different. Mister God ain’t like us; we are a little bit like Mister God, but not much yet.” It seemed to me to reduce itself to the fact that we were like God because of the similarities, but God was not like us because of our differences. Her inner fires had refined her ideas, and like some alchemist she had turned lead into gold. Gone were all the human definitions of God, like Goodness, Mercy, Love, and Justice, for these were merely props to describe the indescribable. “You see, Fynn, Mister God is different because he can finish things and we cant. I cant finish loving you because I shall be dead millions of years before I can finish, but Mister God can finish loving you, and so its not the same kind of love, is it?

Sometimes the woodpecker will show up just to stimulate new rhythms. Rhythm is a powerful means of affecting the physical energies. Sometimes it is easy to get so wrapped up in our daily mental and spiritual activities that we neglect the physical. This can be when the woodpecker shows up. It may also reflect a need to drum some new changes and rhythms into your life. The woodpecker has strong hooked claws for firm holds upon a tree. Its tail feathers help to prop it upright. It also has a peculiar up and down flight. It will fly, coast down, fly and then coast down. It flies in a manner and rhythm unique to itself. All of this serves to emphasize the fact that it will become increasingly important for you to follow your own unique rhythms and flight. Do what works for you in the manner best for you. When woodpecker comes into your life, it indicates that the foundation is there. It is now safe to follow your own rhythms.

Gregori tugged on her hair to force her back to him. "You make me feel alive, Savannah." "Do I? Is that why you're swearing?" She turned onto her stomach, propping herself up onto her elbows. He leaned into her, brushing his mouth across the swell of her breast. "You are managing to tie me up in knots. You take away all my good judgement." A slight smile curved her mouth. "I never noticed that you had particularly good judgement to begin with." His white teeth gleamed, a predator's smile, then sank into soft bare flesh. She yelped but moved closer to him when his tongue swirled and caressed, taking away the sting. "I have always had good judgement," he told her firmly, his teeth scraping back and forth in the valley between her breasts. "So you say.But that doesn't make it so. You let evil idiots shoot you with poisoned darts. You go by yourself into laboratories filled with your enemies. Need I go on?" Her blue eyes were laughing at him. Her firm, rounded bottom was far too tempting to resist. He brought his open palm down in mock punishment. Savannah jumped, but before she could scoot away, his palm began caressing, producing a far different effect. "Judging from our positions, ma petite, I would say my judgement looks better than yours." She laughed. "All right,I'm going to let you win this time." "Would you care for a shower?" he asked solicitously. When she nodded, Gregori flowed off the bed, lifted her high into his arms,and cradled her against his chest. There was something too innocent about him. She eyed him warily. But in an instant he had already glided across the tiled floor to the balcony door, which flew open at his whim, and carried her, naked, into the cold, glittering downpour. Savannah tried to squirm away, wiggling and shoving at his chest, laughing in spite of the icy water cascading over her. "Gregori! You're so mean. I can't believe you did this." "Well,I have poor judgement." He was grinning at her in mocking, male amusement. "Is that not what you said?" "I take it back!" she moaned, clinging to him, burying her fact on his shoulder as the chill rain pelted her bare breasts, making her nipples peak hard and fast. "Run with me tonight," Gregori whispered against her neck. An enticement. Temptation. Drawing her to him, another tie to his dark world. She lifted her head, looked into his silver eyes, and was lost.The rain poured over her, drenching her, but as Gregori slowly glided with her to the blanket of pine needles below the balcony,she couldn't look away from those hungry eyes.

Hushing her with his mouth, he lifted and turned her carefully until she was lying on her stomach. Dazed and shaking, she felt him push a pillow beneath her hips, and then another, until she was propped up high and open as he knelt between her thighs. His fingers stroked and spread the folds of her sex, and then he was pushing inside her again, and her moans became uncontrollable. Helplessly she turned her head to the side, her cheek pressed against the mattress, while her twisting hips were steadied in the firm grasp of his hands. He thrust even deeper than before, probing and stroking and pleasuring her with a measured rhythm... deliberately pushing her over the edge of sanity. She begged, sobbed, groaned, even cursed, and she heard him laugh softly as he drove her into a shattering burst of rapture. Her body clenched around his sex in throbbing contractions, milking a climax from him until a deep growl was torn from his throat. Panting, Marcus lowered his body over hers, his mouth at the nape of her neck, his sex still buried inside her. Resting passively beneath him, licking her swollen lips, Lillian mumbled, "And you called me a savage." She caught her breath as he chuckled, the hair on his chest rubbing like rough-napped velvet against her back.

to be happy This requires a round mirror and a photograph of yourself taken in happier times. The photograph should include no one but yourself. Prop the mirror so that it stands straight on its edge. Next, place the picture on a nearby table, the wall, a chair, or on some other object. The picture should be reflected within the mirror. Allow the mirror to reflect the photograph for at least three minutes. During this time, recall those happier days. Immerse yourself in them. Don’t allow your concentration to waver and melt into a sea of tears concerning your current state; keep your mind firmly fixed on those happier days. Now, sit within the mirror’s reflection, i.e., between the mirror and the picture. Stay there until your sadness truly blossoms into happiness. Repeat as needed.

Who is this man with the temper?” “His name is Richard. He is the Seeker of Truth.” Whispers broke out among the other members of the hunting party. Savidlin’s eyes sought Richard’s. “Strength to Richard, the Seeker.” Kahlan told him what Savidlin had said. There was still a hot look on his face. Savidlin stepped up and hit Richard, not with an open hand as he had hit her, but with his fist. Immediately Richard unleashed a powerful blow of his own that knocked Savidlin from his feet and sent him sprawling on his back. He lay dazed on the ground with his limbs strewn awkwardly out. Fists tightened on weapons. Richard straightened, giving the men a dangerous look that kept them rooted firmly in place. Savidlin propped himself up on one hand, rubbing his jaw with the other. A grin spread across his face. “None has ever shown such respect for my strength! This is a wise man.

I prop my guitar up against the nightstand. Then I turn toward the bed and fall into it face first. The mattress is soft but firm, like a sheet of steel wrapped in a cloud. I roll around, moaning loud and long. “Oh, that’s good. Really, really good. What a grand bed!” Sarah clears her throat. “Well. We should probably get to sleep, then. Big day tomorrow.” The pillow smells sweet, like candy. I can only imagine it’s from her. I wonder if I pressed my nose to the crook of her neck, would her skin smell as delicious? I brush away the thought as I watch her stiffly gather a pillow and blanket from the other side of the bed, dragging them to . . . the nook. “What are you doing?” She looks up, her doe eyes widening. “Getting ready for bed.” “You’re going to sleep there?” “Of course. The sofa’s very uncomfortable.” “Why can’t we share the bed?” She chokes . . . stutters. “I . . . I can’t sleep with you. I don’t even know you.” I throw my arms out wide. “What do you want to know? Ask me anything—I’m an open book.” “That’s not what I mean.” “You’re being ridiculous! It’s a huge bed. You could let one rip and I wouldn’t hear it.” And the blush is back. With a vengeance. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” “You don’t fart?” I scoff. “Really? Are you not human?” She curses under her breath, but I’d love to hear it out loud. I bet uninhibited Sarah Von Titebottum would be a stunning sight. And very entertaining. She shakes her head, pinning me with her eyes. “There’s something wrong with you.” “No.” I explain calmly, “I’m just free. Honest with myself and others. You should try it sometime.” She folds her arms, all tight, trembling indignation. It’s adorable. “I’m sleeping in the nook, Your Highness. And that’s that.” I sit up, pinning her gaze right back at her. “Henry.” “What?” “My name is not Highness, it’s fucking Henry, and I’d prefer you use it.” And she snaps. “Fine! Fucking Henry—happy?” I smile. “Yes. Yes, I am.” I flop back on the magnificent bed. “Sleep tight, Titebottum.” I think she growls at me, but it’s muffled by the sound of rustling bed linens and pillows. And then . . . there’s silence. Beautiful, blessed silence. I wiggle around, getting comfy. I turn on my side and fluff the pillow. I squeeze my eyes tight . . . but it’s hopeless. “Fucking hell!” I sit up. And Sarah springs to her feet. “What? What’s wrong?” It’s the guilt. I’ve barged into this poor girl’s room, confiscated her bed, and have forced her to sleep in a cranny in the wall. I may not be the man my father was or the gentleman my brother is, but I’m not that much of a prick. I stand up, rip my shirt over my head. and march toward the window seat. I feel Sarah’s eyes graze my bare chest, arms. and stomach, but she circles around me, keeping her distance. “You take the bloody bed,” I tell her. “I’ll sleep in the bloody nook.” “You don’t have to do that.” I push my hand through my hair. “Yes, I do.” Then I stand up straight and proper, an impersonation of Hugh Grant in one of his classic royal roles. “Please, Lady Sarah.” She blinks, her little mouth pursed. “Okay.” Then she climbs onto the bed, under the covers. And I squeeze onto the window bench, knees bent, my elbow jammed against the icy windowpane, and my neck bent at an odd angle that I’m going to be feeling tomorrow. The light is turned down to a very low dim, and for several moments all I hear is Sarah’s soft breaths. But then, in the near darkness, her delicate voice floats out on a sigh. “All right, we can sleep in the bed together.” Music to my ears. I don’t make her tell me twice—I’ve fulfilled my noble quota for the evening. I stumble from the nook and crash onto the bed. That’s better.

Elizabeth’s concern that Ian might insult them, either intentionally or otherwise, soon gave way to admiration and then to helpless amusement as he sat for the next half-hour, charming them all with an occasional lazy smile or interjecting a gallant compliment, while they spent the entire time debating whether to sell the chocolates being donated by Gunther’s for $5 or $6 per box. Despite Ian’s outwardly bland demeanor, Elizabeth waited uneasily for him to say he’d buy the damned cartload of chocolates for $10 apiece, if it would get them on to the next problem, which she knew was what he was dying to say. But she needn’t have worried, for he continued to positively exude pleasant interest. Four times, the committee paused to solicit his advice; four times, he smilingly made excellent suggestions; four times, they ignored what he suggested. And four times, he seemed not to mind in the least or even notice. Making a mental note to thank him profusely for his incredible forbearance, Elizabeth kept her attention on her guests and the discussion, until she inadvertently glanced in his direction, and her breath caught. Seated on the opposite side of the gathering from her, he was now leaning back in his chair, his left ankle propped atop his right knee, and despite his apparent absorption in the topic being discussed, his heavy-lidded gaze was roving meaningfully over her breasts. One look at the smile tugging at his lips and Elizabeth realized that he wanted her to know it. Obviously he’d decided that both she and he were wasting their time with the committee, and he was playing an amusing game designed to either divert her or discomfit her entirely, she wasn’t certain which. Elizabeth drew a deep breath, ready to blast a warning look at him, and his gaze lifted slowly from her gently heaving bosom, traveled lazily up her throat, paused at her lips, and then lifted to her narrowed eyes. Her quelling glance earned her nothing but a slight, challenging lift of his brows and a decidedly sensual smile, before his gaze reversed and began a lazy trip downward again. Lady Wiltshire’s voice rose, and she said for the second time, “Lady Thornton, what do you think?” Elizabeth snapped her gaze from her provoking husband to Lady Wiltshire. “I-I agree,” she said without the slightest idea of what she was agreeing with. For the next five minutes, she resisted the tug of Ian’s caressing gaze, firmly refusing to even glance his way, but when the committee reembarked on the chocolate issue again, she stole a look at him. The moment she did, he captured her gaze, holding it, while he, with an outward appearance of a man in thoughtful contemplation of some weighty problem, absently rubbed his forefinger against his mouth, his elbow propped on the arm of his chair. Elizabeth’s body responded to the caress he was offering her as if his lips were actually on hers, and she drew a long, steadying breath as he deliberately let his eyes slide to her breasts again. He knew exactly what his gaze was doing to her, and Elizabeth was thoroughly irate at her inability to ignore its effect. The committee departed on schedule a half-hour later amid reminders that the next meeting would be held at Lady Wiltshire’s house. Before the door closed behind them, Elizabeth rounded on her grinning, impenitent husband in the drawing room. “You wretch!” she exclaimed. “How could you?” she demanded, but in the midst of her indignant protest, Ian shoved his hands into her hair, turned her face up, and smothered her words with a ravenous kiss. “I haven’t forgiven you,” she warned him in bed an hour later, her cheek against his chest. Laughter, rich and deep, rumbled beneath her ear. “No?” “Absolutely not. I’ll repay you if it’s the last thing I do.” “I think you already have,” he said huskily, deliberately misunderstanding her meaning.

The file was where he’d left it, front and center on his desk. He opened it and propped his bare feet up on the corner of the desk. One of their holdings was a small security firm that did an excellent job quietly digging into people’s lives.

Another Chinese tactic for propping up autocracies is strategic lending and investment.26 In 2009 and 2010, China provided more loans to firms and governments in developing countries than did the World Bank.

This sordid exercise has a soothing, if mystifying name: ‘dividend recapitalisation’ – though to call it that would be akin to relabelling a bank robbery as ‘asset redistribution’. The private equity firm that cost Gillian her job has practised straightforward asset-stripping, with financialisation providing the necessary smoke and mirrors. Looters, who have created no new value, have simply ransacked a pre-existing care provider. To use the language of early economists like Adam Smith, it is a classic case of feudal rent defeating capitalist profit; of wealth extraction by those who already have it triumphing over the creation of new wealth by entrepreneurs. And the key point to note is that the success of such a scheme depends on these looters being able to sell subsidiaries like PropCom at high enough prices once the original company has been destroyed.

I wasn’t one hundred percent certain you’d be down with the makeup.” “Oh?” He lifted an eyebrow, propping a hip against the table to sip his beer. “Why wear it, then?” I stepped closer, enough so that if he’d parted his knees a little bit, I could have pressed right up flush against him. I brushed my lips along his jaw, somewhere between a kiss and a nuzzle, not quite either. “Because I didn’t wear it for you.” I could swear I heard a soft groan escape his throat under the bass of the music, and then his knees did inch apart a bit more, his hands settling more firmly on my hips again to draw me closer until we were eye-to-eye and crotch-to-crotch. We gasped in unison at the friction of that first electric contact. “And that is why you’re so fucking hot,” he rasped. Our mouths were a breath apart and he could have kissed me, or I could have kissed him. But we didn’t. We just breathed together, savoring that madly intense moment of perfect wanting. After a moment he stepped back and led me to the dance floor.

Odysseus is the statesman of the Iliad, the man in the middle, keeping what balance he can among the parties. He shows himself at Troy, as later on Ithaca, as a firm conservative, in the sense that he props up the status quo—in this case, his insufficient chief. In his own poem a complementary side to his law-and-order propensity will show itself: a wide and deep imagination. The man of order, balance, and tradition, the centrist par excellence in public life, is a vividly imagining free spirit in his inner life.

It hurts,” Portia moaned. “It hurts so much. I must be dying.” “Of course you aren’t.” Folding her skirts, Cecily settled at her friend’s side. Luke could feel her blue eyes on him as he selected a thick branch and stripped it of twigs. Having removed his coat, Brooke folded it and propped it beneath Portia’s head, for a pillow. “You can’t die,” he told her, crouching at her other side. “Who would argue with me then?” “Anyone with sense,” she said tartly. But when Brooke took her hand, Portia allowed him to keep it. “Don’t you aggravating know-all’s have some sort of debating society?” “Yes, but none of the members have your amusing imagination. Nor such lovely hair.” He stroked an ebony lock from her pale, sweating brow. Luke pushed her skirts to the knee and took a firm grip on his branch. “Mrs. Yardley, this is going to hurt.” Portia whimpered. Brooke kept stroking her hair, murmuring, “Be brave, darling. Scream all you like. Break every bone in my hand, if you must. I won’t leave your side.” Cecily

Somewhat revived by the water she had been forced to consume, Loretta sat astride the mare, suffering the confines of Hunter’s arm around her waist and the familiarity of his hand on her midriff. His broad chest served as a prop for her back; soon she leaned against him, letting her body undulate with his in rhythm with the horse’s gait. After about forty minutes of silence, he bent his head close to hers. “Mah-tao-yo. My arm is strong, no?” He hugged her close to demonstrate. “A strong arm to lean upon, a shield against all that might harm you? You will trust this Comanche. Drink and eat. It is a good place where we go.” Loretta made a fist in the leather of her shirt and squeezed until her knuckles hurt. She didn’t want to die. It would be so easy, so horribly easy, to believe him. “You will be warm with me in my lodge? I have many buffalo robes. And plenty food. Meat, yes? And my strong arm will protect you, forever into the horizon. There is nothing to fear.” He pressed his hand more firmly against her midriff. “My tongue does not make lies. It is the truth I speak, not penende taquoip, the honey talk, but a promise. I have spoken the words, and they are carried away on the wind to whisper to me always. You will trust? When I go away from you on raids and hunting trips, my brother’s strong arm will be yours. No harm will come to you.

Our philosophy is that home decor shouldn’t be taken too seriously, because we want our homes to reflect who we are, no one else. We want things to be fun and interesting, but we want things we can really live with and around. We want a place where you can use Play-Doh or prop up crusty old cowboy boots on the coffee table. We’re not afraid of candle drippings or drink rings. We believe all these things help our homes tell a tale of love and family. A tale of history and future. A tale of the American experience. Our homes spin the story we want to live in every day. We firmly believe your home should be your sanctuary, where you surround yourself with every sensible and nonsensible thing you love, a place that speaks of where you’ve been and where you’re going. Make no mistake: Our homes are far from perfect! Just beyond the frame of every camera angle is a pile of dirty clothes, three half-unpacked suitcases, and a room still waiting to be decorated. Because that, my friends, is real. C’mon in anyway and stay awhile. Our hope is that you’ll find an idea—a project, a picture, a spark of divine fire—that will inspire you. Because just like the wild woods or the glorious road, like fingerprints or feathers, your home is unique—and it should be uniquely you.

Surely there is someone who would see you as a man and not as a war machine.” “I am one in the same.” She shook her head. “Untrue,” she countered firmly, softly. “Who you are as a man is completely different than who you are as a warrior.” He sat back, one big arm propped up on a bended knee. “Explain.” She looked thoughtful. “Well,” she said, “as a warrior, you are bent on death. I saw you in the battle today and you were focused, alert, and skilled.  That is the man they call the Black Angel.  But right now, as you sit here and converse with me, you are kind, interested, and thoughtful. You are concerned for my shoulder and concerned for me. To me, that speaks highly of who Brandt de Russe is as a man. You are more than the Bringer of Death; have a heart and a soul as well.

Dig, dig the foundation deep, young man. Plant firmly the outer wall; Let the props be strong and the roof be high." " Build it well, whatever you do; Build it straight and strong and true; Build it clean and high and broad; Build it for the eye of God.

The screen door banged open, and Tessa traipsed out the door. With a flourish, she turned a wicker porch chair to face the swing and plopped down in it. “Tessa Gregory, what are you doing out here?” Charlotte snapped. Propping her hand beneath her chin, she stared at George. “Chaperoning.” Charlotte jumped to her feet, rattling the chains of the swing. She grabbed her sister’s hand and yanked her out of the chair. “You get back inside this instant. We want some privacy.” “So you can . . .” Tessa puckered her lips and gave an exaggerated smack in George’s direction. With a firm grasp around Tessa’s arm, Charlotte opened the screen door, shoved her sister inside, and slammed the door shut. Instead of disappearing, Tessa stood at the screen, adding a few more loud smacking noises.

Kids are often taught that confidence means feeling good, feeling proud, or feeling happy with themselves. It doesn’t. I know that might seem like a bold statement, but I firmly believe it’s time to reframe the discussion around confidence. When we define confidence as “feeling good about ourselves,” we end up trying to convince our kids out of their distress, out of their disappointment, or out of their perception that they are not very good at certain things; this is unfortunate, because I believe this pathway of reassurance and propping up actually destroys confidence. Hear me out. For me, confidence is not about feeling “good,” it’s about believing, “I really know what I feel right now. Yes, this feeling is real, and yes, it’s allowed to be there, and yes, I am a good person while I am feeling this way.” Confidence is our ability to feel at home with ourselves in the widest range of feelings possible, and it’s built from the belief that it’s okay to be who you are no matter what you’re feeling.

When I lifted my head, I realised that Rome and Yael were both still standing at the end of the bed, staring down at me. They seemed uneasy, and the strangeness of our grouping finally hit me in that moment. Rome and Yael were the least likely to break the girl-brother pact, at least when they were paired together. Yael was too competitive to share, and Rome was the easiest to rile into an argument. Especially an argument about me. The others had somehow chosen this grouping with my discomfort firmly in mind, and that annoyed the hell out of me. “Are you both going to sleep standing up?” I grumbled, propping myself up on my elbows. “Is this some kind of weird, true-god sleeping position? Does it keep your heads upright so that you can easily look down on everyone?” “What got into her just now?” Rome asked Yael, turning his head to the side to talk to his brother, while his eyes stayed fixed on me. His posture was wary. “No idea.” Yael’s voice was low, as though I might not hear him if he tricked me into thinking that the conversation was a private one. “It was very sudden. But mortal women are supposed to have mood swings. Did she not eat enough? Should I put some bread in her mouth before it gets worse?” “Is that why you all have such good posture?” I pressed on, my voice getting louder—possibly to drown out Yael before he said anything else about what mortal women were like. “Because you sleep standing up like you might wrinkle your powerful reputation by laying down?” “Too late.” Rome’s eyebrows shot up a little. “It got worse.

When the tea tray arrived, Annie the doll was propped up on the settee between Poppy and Merritt. The little girl pressed the edge of her teacup against the doll’s painted mouth. “Annie wants more sugar, Mama,” Merritt said. Lillian grinned, knowing who was going to drink the highly sweetened tea. “Tell Annie we never have more than two lumps in a cup, darling. It will make her ill.” “But she has a sweet tooth,” the child protested. She added ominously, “A sweet tooth and a temper.” Lillian shook her head with a tsk-tsk. “Such a headstrong doll. Be firm with her, Merritt.

It hurts,” Portia moaned. “It hurts so much. I must be dying.” “Of course you aren’t.” Folding her skirts, Cecily settled at her friend’s side. Luke could feel her blue eyes on him as he selected a thick branch and stripped it of twigs. Having removed his coat, Brooke folded it and propped it beneath Portia’s head, for a pillow. “You can’t die,” he told her, crouching at her other side. “Who would argue with me then?” “Anyone with sense,” she said tartly. But when Brooke took her hand, Portia allowed him to keep it. “Don’t you aggravating know-all’s have some sort of debating society?” “Yes, but none of the members have your amusing imagination. Nor such lovely hair.” He stroked an ebony lock from her pale, sweating brow. Luke pushed her skirts to the knee and took a firm grip on his branch. “Mrs. Yardley, this is going to hurt.” Portia whimpered. Brooke kept stroking her hair, murmuring, “Be brave, darling. Scream all you like. Break every bone in my hand, if you must. I won’t leave your side.

The driver’s door is open, and Luca’s leaning on it, elbows propped on the top, in a white linen shirt, his black hair raked back from his brow, sunglasses dangling from his long fingers. As soon as I catch sight of him, he lifts his head, as if he’s sensing me. Our eyes meet. Oh no. I can’t do this. I get a flash of sapphire, and it’s awful, it’s too intense. How can just a momentary glance do this to me? It’s ridiculous, beyond stupid, and when Luca promptly lifts his sunglasses, slides them onto his nose, and raises his head further, chin tilted up, clearly avoiding my gaze, I’m grateful. I really am. I tell myself so, very firmly.

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