Putting Pride Aside Quotes

Rowan considered for a moment, and then said, "I have known many kings in my life, Dorian Havilliard. And it was a rare man indeed who asked for help when he needed it, who would put aside pride.

Miracles, contrary to popular belief, do not just happen. A miracle is the achievement of the impossible, and it is only when we put aside out greed, anger, pride and prejudice so that our minds are open and ready to accept it, that a miracle can occur.

He must put aside his pride, his virtue, beauty and life and bow or submit to the absolutely intolerable.

Readers, friends, if you turn these pages Put your prejudice aside, For, really, there's nothing here that's outrageous, Nothing sick, or bad — or contagious. Not that I sit here glowing with pride For my book: all you'll find is laughter: That's all the glory my heart is after, Seeing how sorrow eats you, defeats you. I'd rather write about laughing than crying, For laughter makes men human, and courageous.

Some of you need a lesson in humility. While your arrogance may give you a sense of power, it may serve you better to put it aside. Those are the times you will be the light of the world.

GrayG: Just to clarify, putting the perfectly reasonable and technically correct name aside, shenanigans are a go? Laughing now, I lean back more comfortably in the ugly plastic airport seat and answer. IvyMac: All night, Cupcake. I can’t wait to taste your frosting. A couple seconds pass and then, GrayG: Mac, you sent a dirty text. I just shed a tear of pride. I also have a hard-on. I think the little old lady sitting next to me is checking it out.

You are in the grip of a desire for martyrdom and self-sacrifice; conquer this desire as well, set aside your pages and your intention--and then you will overcome everything. You will put to shame all your pride and your demon! You will win, you will attain freedom...

He must put aside his pride, his virtue, beauty, and life and bow or submit to the absolutely intolerable. Then he finds that he and his opposite are not of differing species, but one flesh

It is wrong to say that schoolmasters lack heart and are dried-up, soulless pedants! No, by no means. When a child's talent which he has sought to kindle suddenly bursts forth, when the boy puts aside his wooden sword, slingshot, bow-and-arrow and other childish games, when he begins to forge ahead, when the seriousness of the work begins to transform the rough-neck into a delicate, serious and an almost ascetic creature, when his face takes on an intelligent, deeper and more purposeful expression - then a teacher's heart laughs with happiness and pride. It is his duty and responsibility to control the raw energies and desires of his charges and replace them with calmer, more moderate ideals. What would many happy citizens and trustworthy officials have become but unruly, stormy innovators and dreamers of useless dreams, if not for the effort of their schools? In young beings there is something wild, ungovernable, uncultured which first has to be tamed. It is like a dangerous flame that has to be controlled or it will destroy. Natural man is unpredictable, opaque, dangerous, like a torrent cascading out of uncharted mountains. At the start, his soul is a jungle without paths or order. And, like a jungle, it must first be cleared and its growth thwarted. Thus it is the school's task to subdue and control man with force and make him a useful member of society, to kindle those qualities in him whose development will bring him to triumphant completion.

The hero, whether god or goddess, man or woman, the figure in a myth or the dreamer of a dream, discovers and assimilates his opposite (his own unsuspecting self) either by swallowing it or by being swallowed. one by one the resistences are broken. he must put aside his pride, his virtue, beauty, and life, and bow or submit to the absolutely intolerable. Then he finds that he and his opposite are not of differing species, but one flesh.

History shows us we need labels to help define our place. For hundreds of years, people have categorized others as less so they could feel like more. Color, gender, class, religion, physical handicaps, sexual orientation, and pedigree are just a few ways in which one group is divided from another. For every person who stands superior, another must be inferior. But what does it say of us as a human race when we push others down for our own needs? Does it accomplish the intended goal or simply give rise to a pattern of behavior that can never be broken? What if we all stood equal in one another’s eyes and felt pride at our reflection? I speak of utopia and chance being ridiculed, but sitting in a village thousands of miles from everything, I will roll the dice. For one day only, maybe we could put aside our differences and come together in our sameness. For one day, we could see that past all the variations, we are all the same with similar hopes, dreams, fears, strengths, and weaknesses. For one day, we could stand together, not apart, and treat others as we would hope to be treated.

What if we all stood equal in one another’s eyes and felt pride at our reflection? I speak of utopia and chance being ridiculed, but sitting in a village thousands of miles from everything, I will roll the dice. For one day only, maybe we could put aside our differences and come together in our sameness. For one day, we could see that past all the variations, we are all the same with similar hopes, dreams, fears, strengths, and weaknesses. For one day, we could stand together, not apart, and treat others as we would hope to be treated. History teaches us that day will never come. Our differences give us purpose—both good and bad. Some see it as an opportunity to strive for what they aren’t, while others take it to belittle those who frighten us. In the vein of my earlier appreciation for dancing, I would imagine a world where music defines us. The fall and rise of the tempo would dictate our moves, and our hearts and minds would sway to the beat. Each person would have a place on the stage, and every voice would be heard. The melodies would bridge our differences while celebrating our similarities. And at the end, we would be better for having danced together.

Mr. President, Dr. Biden, Madam Vice President, Mr. Emhoff, Americans and the world, when day comes we ask ourselves where can we find light in this never-ending shade? The loss we carry asea we must wade. We’ve braved the belly of the beast. We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace. In the norms and notions of what just is isn’t always justice. And yet, the dawn is ours before we knew it. Somehow we do it. Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished. We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president only to find herself reciting for one. And yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine, but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect. We are striving to forge our union with purpose. To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters, and conditions of man. And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us, but what stands before us. We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside. We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another. We seek harm to none and harmony for all. Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true. That even as we grieved, we grew. That even as we hurt, we hoped. That even as we tired, we tried that will forever be tied together victorious. Not because we will never again know defeat, but because we will never again sow division. Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree and no one shall make them afraid. If we’re to live up to her own time, then victory won’t lie in the blade, but in all the bridges we’ve made. That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb if only we dare. It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit. It’s the past we step into and how we repair it. We’ve seen a forest that would shatter our nation rather than share it. Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy. This effort very nearly succeeded. But while democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated. In this truth, in this faith we trust for while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us. This is the era of just redemption. We feared it at its inception. We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour, but within it, we found the power to author a new chapter, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves so while once we asked, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe? Now we assert, how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us? We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be a country that is bruised, but whole, benevolent, but bold, fierce, and free. We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation. Our blunders become their burdens. But one thing is certain, if we merge mercy with might and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright. So let us leave behind a country better than one we were left with. Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one. We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the West. We will rise from the wind-swept Northeast where our forefathers first realized revolution. We will rise from the Lake Rim cities of the Midwestern states. We will rise from the sun-baked South. We will rebuild, reconcile and recover in every known nook of our nation, in every corner called our country our people diverse and beautiful will emerge battered and beautiful. When day comes, we step out of the shade aflame and unafraid. The new dawn blooms as we free it. For there is always light. If only we’re brave enough.

Rider's head snapped up at the sound of gravel crunching under Willow's boots. The sight of the girl in boy's garb birthed an oath. Beneath her cotton shirt, her breasts bounced freely with each step. And within the tight mannish pants, her hips swung in an unconscious rhythm, clearly proclaiming her all woman. Hell, she might as well be naked! His body's reaction was immediate. Cursing his lack of control, he turned sideways, facing her horse, and pretended to adjust the saddle straps. Willow took Sugar's reins and waited for Rider to move aside. He didn't budge an inch. Instead, he tipped his hat back on his head, revealing undisguised disapproval. "Is that the way you always dress?" he bit out. Willow stiffened, immediately defensive. Criticizing herself was one thing; putting up with Sinclair's disdain was another! "If you were expecting a dress, you're crazy!" she snapped. "It would be suicide in this country." "Haven't you ever heard of riding skirts?" "Yes. I'm not as dumb as you seem to think. But fancy riding skirts cost money I don't have. 'Sides, pants are a hell of a lot more useful on the ranch than some damn riding skirt! Now, if you're done jawing about my clothes, I'd like to get a move on before dark." "Somebody ought to wash that barnyard mouth of yours,woman." Willow rested her hand on her gun. "You can try, if you dare." As if I'd draw on a woman, Rider cursed silently, stepping out of her way. As she hoisted herself into the saddle, he was perversely captivated by the way the faded demin stretched over her round bottom. He imagined her long slender legs wrapped around him and how her perfect heart-shaped buttocks would fill his hands and...Oh,hell, what was he doing standing here, gaping like some callow youth? Maybe the girl was right.Maybe he was crazy. One moment he was giving the little witch hell for wearing men's pants; the next he was ogling her in them. He started to turn away, then reached out and gave her booted ankle an angry jerk. "Now what?" Icy turquoise eyes met his, dark and searing. "Do you have any idea what you look like in that get-up? No self-respecting lady would dress like that. It's an open invitation to a man. And if you think that gun you're wearing is going to protect you, you're badly mistaken." Willow gritted her teeth in mounting ire. "So what's it to you, Sinclair? You ain't my pa and you ain't my brother. Hell,my clothes cover me just as good as yours cover you!" She slapped his hand from her ankle, jerked Sugar around, and spurred the mare into a brisk gallop. Before the fine red dust settled, Rider was on his horse, racing after her. Dammit, she's right.Why should I care how she dresses? Heaven knows it certainly has no bearing on my mission. No, agreed a little voice in his head, but it sure is distacting as hell! He'd always prided himself on his cool control; it had saved his backside more than once. But staying in any kind of control around Willow Vaughn was like trying to tame a whimsical March wind-impossible!

Wave after wave of an orgasm broke over her, but soon it would be over for him. “Stop,” Livia panted. Blake paused as Livia swallowed to try to compose herself. She was here for a reason. “The mask. Take it off. I want you to kiss me.” Livia watched his eyes. He was scared. “Blake, you’re inside of me. I’ll keep you safe. You’re inside of me.” Livia squeezed him again, reminding him exactly where he was. Blake smiled at the sensation. “Do it for me, Livia. Please.” And even though they were naked and locked in the most intimate embrace, this was the striptease. Livia went slowly, rolling up the knit ski mask like a stocking. First his jaw came into the light. Livia slowed, tracing its strong line with her finger. Next, his lips lost their frame, then his eyes left their prison. He closed them. Finally, his wild, messy hair was free. Livia tossed the mask aside. And waited. Open your eyes. After a moment Blake looked around his sunny meadow. A breeze stirred the trees high up, and they released a shower of fall colors. In the silence of the day, the leaves hitting the ground sounded like applause. Quiet applause for a quiet victory. The o in sorry vanished. Blake looked at Livia beneath him. She smiled. “Five hundred ninety-eight,” he whispered. Still counting. “Yes! Yes. I knew you could do this. I knew you could do this.” Livia beamed with pride. Blake blurred as her eyes became two pools of tears. He kissed her softly, but Livia wanted the rough thrusts back. She pulled away and wiped her eyes. “Giddy up!” Livia spanked Blake playfully. He gave a little chuckle before he put her out of her misery. If she thought he was going fast and hard before, she was wrong. Blake was almost done when he let Livia’s leg slip from his shoulder. He kissed her with his clever tongue and moaned loudly into her mouth.

Very well, then. We'll take it." "Now, wait just one moment," Gareth protested, growing angry. "I will not have my wife and daughter spending the night in a bawdy house!" Juliet took him aside, leaning close to him and tilting her face up to whisper in his ear:  "Gareth, I don't like this any more than you do, but it's only for one night, and it will save us some money." "We have plenty of money, we don't need to be frugal!" "That is the most absurd statement I've yet to hear you utter." He set his jaw. She continued, "You gave most of your money to the vicar, and what Perry and the duke gave us, though substantial, won't last forever. We cannot afford to be choosy, Gareth. Now, please — put aside your pride for a moment and be practical, would you?" "It has nothing to do with pride. I want to bring you to a hotel," he said sullenly. "A nice hotel. It's our wedding night, Juliet; you deserve no less." "A wedding night is a night just like any other," she said pragmatically, her unthinking words inadvertently cutting him to the bone. She saw the sudden hurt in his eyes and laid her hand on his wrist. "We don't have money to waste, Gareth." He stared at her, crushed by how lightly she seemed to regard the symbolic parts of marriage that he considered special — that she, had she loved him, would consider special, too. Was that how she rated their marriage, as well? Dispensable? Not worth some extra effort? He wondered, rather bitterly, if her marriage to Charles would have meant so little that she would have dishonored it by spending their wedding night in a brothel, as she was happy to do with theirs. Somehow he doubted it. "Very well, madam," he said, retreating into formal aloofness to disguise his hurt. "Have it your way, then."   ~~~~

Just promise me one thing." Gareth raised a brow in question. "That if you get in over your head, you'll contact me."  His black eyes stared levelly into Gareth's, and Gareth realized that, for the first time, his brother was treating him as an equal. "Sometimes it takes more courage for a man to put aside his pride and admit he needs help than to try to manage on his own." "I shall remember that." "You do that," Lucien said.

Whenever I was too straitly pressed with objections and arguments against any of my sentiments, and when doubts began to arise in my mind, to put off the uneasiness occasioned by them, my constant practice was to recollect, as far as I could, all the reasonings and interpretations of Scripture on the other side of the question; and when this failed of affording satisfaction, I had recourse to controversial writings. This drew me aside from the pure Word of God, rendered me more remiss and formal in prayer, and furnished me with defensive armour against my convictions, with fuel for my passions, and food for my pride and self-sufficiency.

I granted Wickham my friendship long after I knew he did not deserve it. I put aside my judgment and I hoped for the best, for the sake of my father’s memory. I was very soon proved wrong.

After getting himself together, he continued his speech. “My fault about that, but um. When you have a woman that not only prays for your well-being, but your life and y’all’s relationship, you better keep her. Put that pride aside and make it work. Do whatever it takes to make sure she’s by your side.” The

Abalone stared into the fizzing glass. “My father served yours.” “Yeah. Very well, I might add.” “Through your blood’s generosity, mine has prospered.” Abalone took another sip, his shaking hand making the ice tinkle. “May I say something about your father?” The King seemed to stiffen. “Yeah.” Abalone looked up to the sunglasses. “The night he and your mother were killed, a part of my father died, too. He was never the same thereafter. I can remember our house being in mourning for a full seven years, the mirrors draped in black cloth, the incense burning, the threshold marked with a black jamb.” Wrath rubbed his face. “They were good people, my parents.” Abalone put the soda aside and shifted off the armchair, getting on his knees before his King. “I will serve you just as my father did, down to the bone and marrow.” Abalone was dimly aware that others had filed into the room and were looking at him. He cared naught. History had come full circle . . . and he was prepared to carry forward with pride. Wrath nodded once. “I’m making you my chief cleric. Right here and now. Saxton,” he barked out. “What do I need to do?” A cultured voice answered smoothly, “You just did it all. I’ll draw up the paperwork.” The King smiled and put out his palm. “You’re the first member of my court. Boom!

One cannot be greedy as long as he has pride. Greed will put Pride aside.

A grateful life is worth living, it is said that it is in giving that we receive. If you can be anything in this world, be a person of Love, Service and Blessing to others.There is great joy in being humble. Humbleness is not quietness, let's not confuse the two. Humbleness requires us to put others first, be great listeners and be compassionate towards others. Humbleness reminds us to put our Ego, Selfishness and Pride aside. The key attributes of humbleness is in Giving, Gratefulness & Love for others.

When you can put pride aside and do what is necessary to move your life forward, that is when you will become successful.

Every day I put love on the line. There is nothing I am less good at than love. I am far better in competition than in love. I am far better at responding to my instincts and ambitions to get ahead and make my mark than I am at figuring out how to love another. I am schooled and trained in acquisitive skills, in getting my own way. And yet I decide, every day, to set aside what I can do best and attempt what I do very clumsily—open myself to the frustrations and failures of loving, daring to believe that failing in love is better than succeeding in pride.

Now queer communities are an entirely different thing. That would be like if you decided to round up all of the people who have ever bicycled through the Posey Tube and put them all in the same room together. At first, you would all bond over your shared experiences traversing and surviving the tunnel. There would be expressions of Posey Tube Pride abound, and it would no doubt be a wonderful affair. But fairly shortly after that, you would all start to realize that you have nothing in common with one another aside from this one thing. After all, you each come from different backgrounds and have different personal and political views. Not to mention different bicycles!

Pride is intellectual self-judgment. It’s a mixture of hope and fantasy, and should be put aside. ‘Assurance’, which is a measure of competence, is a more useful standard.

It does not matter how much she cried. God is always by her side. She puts pride aside and acknowledges the God who gave her life. She keeps looking up to Him for her miracle. She is indeed a woman of faith. Faith that cannot be shaken by any gale.

In the fringes of our yard, daffodils await their triumphant chorus. The golden bells have just opened on our forsythia, and clusters of hyacinth flowers await flourish in purple blooms. By aesthetic standards, any of these blossoms would have outshone the fistful of yellow spikes my little boy offered. In the coming months, dozens of its cousins, cast away as weeds, will meet an untimely end beneath the blades of a lawnmower. Their brazen head will be lopped off, their awkward petals demolished and scattered. They will be declared a nuisance, expendable. Yet when gripped within Pip's fingers, how perfect, how precious became this paltry bloom. He had put aside the torrent of irritability and overwhelm that trouble him hourly, and found grace in a spiral of petals. Through a humble weed, love had broken through. God works this way. He does great things with the meager, and beautiful things with the misshapen. He chooses the smallest, the humblest, the most broken as his servants. (1 Sam 16:10-12, Numbers 12:3, 1 Tim 1:15) He works for good through the greatest calamity. (Gen 50:20) With his most beloved broken and crushed, he reaches through the firmament, and in love makes things new. (Rev 21:5) Where we see weakness, he offers grace. (2 Cor 12:9) He shatters pride, so new blossoms can burst forth. I've spent the past few months wrestling with God. After Pip's evaluation, as we clumsily felt out life with special needs, the questions of why wrapped around my heart, infusing me with daily bitterness. Resentment broiled to the surface. I'd left medicine to follow God's call, but a large part of me, in shocking arrogance, wanted to comply on my terms. Over the past two years, God has compelled me to confront my idols. I thrived on productivity. But now I inevitably find grime in corners I have just cleaned. I prized efficiency. But it now takes 30 minutes of wrangling over potty... I'm an introvert, who needs alone time to rejuvenate. But is anyone less alone than a mom with young kids? A "save the world" mentality drives me. But my daily life fodder is now the mundane. I relish instant gratification. But this business of shepherding hearts is long, with few immediate rewards. I relished accolades... I consider God's graciousness to us, and in the stillness of a springtime morning, I struggle for breath. His mercy toward us in this season -- in the face of my arrogance, despite the brokenness to which I've so stalwartly clung -- is stunning. During all the years of my training and career, homeschooling was never the plan. God inexplicably placed the idea in my heart, like a shadow that deepened daily. But now, I see how perfect were his methods. I shudder to think of how our family would struggle if I was still barreling ahead at the hospital, subsumed with my own self importance, while Pip fought daily to deal with every crowd... Homeschooling was never the plan. . . but oh, what a plan! That he called us this way, was mercy manifest. That he has equipped us to continue, is the greatest gift. Even on the hard days, I count it all joy. On the days when Pip, after a week of handling things so well, has a meltdown in the grocery store, complete with screaming and a blow to my chin -- there is joy there. God can work even with our ugliness. Through Christ, God redeems even the most corrupt. He assembles the stray petals, the unseemly stems, and makes things new. He strips away the idolatry of a surgeon desperate to prove her own worth, and points her toward the fount of all worth -- Christ Jesus. There is a deep well of peace in serving God where he has placed you. There is a refining grace, in realizing his work even in the hard moments. There is a profound beauty in redemption -- in the love that breaks forth through brokenness -- if we can only put away our preoccupations, and embrace his will. "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." -- 2 Cor 12:9

The boy went to his room and packed his belongings. They filled three sacks. As he was leaving, he saw, in the corner of the room, his old shepherd’s pouch. It was bunched up, and he had hardly thought of it for a long time. As he took his jacket out of the pouch, thinking to give it to someone in the street, the two stones fell to the floor. Urim and Thummim. It made the boy think of the old king, and it startled him to realize how long it had been since he had thought of him. For nearly a year, he had been working incessantly, thinking only of putting aside enough money so that he could return to Spain with pride. “Never stop dreaming,” the old king had said. “Follow the omens.” The boy picked up Urim and Thummim, and, once again, had the strange sensation that the old king was nearby. He had worked hard for a year, and the omens were that it was time to go. I’m going to go back to doing just what I did before, the boy thought. Even though the sheep didn’t teach me to speak Arabic. But the sheep had taught him something even more important: that there was a language in the world that everyone understood, a language the boy had used throughout the time that he was trying to improve things at the shop. It was the language of enthusiasm, of things accomplished with love and purpose, and as part of a search for something believed in and desired. Tangier was no longer a strange city, and he felt that, just as he had conquered this place, he could conquer the world. “When you want something, all the universe conspires to help you achieve it,” the old king had said.

Would it kill you to just put your pride aside for the slightest second and ask me if I'm doing okay?

Anger that is sin, on the other hand, is anger that is self-defensive and self-serving, that is resentful of what is done against oneself. It is the anger that leads to murder and to God’s judgment (Matt. 5:21-22). Anger that is selfish, undisciplined, and vindictive is sinful and has no place even temporarily in the Christian life. But anger that is unselfish and is based on love for God and concern for others not only is permissible but commanded. Genuine love cannot help being angered at that which injures the object of that love. But even righteous anger can easily turn to bitterness, resentment, and self-righteousness. Consequently, Paul goes on to say, do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not give the devil an opportunity. Even the best motivated anger can sour, and we are therefore to put it aside at the end of the day. Taken to bed, it is likely to give the devil an opportunity to use it for his purposes. If anger is prolonged, one may begin to seek vengeance and thereby violate the principle taught in Romans 12:17-21, Never pay back evil for evil to anyone. Respect what is right in the sight of all men. If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men. Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,” says the Lord. “But if your enemy is hungry, feed him, and if he is thirsty, give him a drink; for in so doing you will heap burning coals upon his head. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” It may also be that verses 26b-27 refer entirely to this unrighteous anger, in which case Paul uses the imperative in the sense of saying that, because anger may come in a moment and overtake a believer, and because it has such a strong tendency to grow and fester, it should be dealt with immediately—confessed, forsaken, and given to God for cleansing before we end the day. In any case of anger, whether legitimate or not, if it is courted, “advantage [will] be taken of us by Satan” (2 Cor. 2:11), and he will feed our anger with self-pity, pride, self-righteousness, vengeance, defense of our rights, and every other sort of selfish sin and violation of God’s holy will.

That which gives detailed analysis of anger-pride-deceit-greed and puts them aside and doesn’t allow any clashes to occur at home, is known as intellect. It makes one do ‘everywhere adjustment’.

It’s preposterous, expecting a man to unburden himself to a woman,” Bennett Winchester slurred as the mantel clock chimed. Though it was midmorning the Bow Street Society’s parlour had neither daylight nor gaslight to soften the retired captain’s pointed profile. Bloodshot, brown eyes looked beyond the wall as he approached, turned, and retraced his route, each thump of his boot succeeded by the heavy thud of his peg-leg. Miss Trent’s gaze tracked him during each pass of her armchair yet she remained seated. “Captain Winchester,” she began, “you weren’t obligated to come here and I wasn’t obligated to receive you, yet here we are. Putting aside my disinclination to beg your pardon for my gender, I instead ask you to observe your surroundings. You and I are the only ones here. Therefore, your choice is clear—either swallow your masculine pride and tell me why you’re here, or leave and put your trust in those at Bow Street Police Station.” “Don’t speak such impertinence to me!” Captain Winchester barked, drawing Miss Trent to her feet. She countered, “I shall speak whatever I want, Captain, when you are in my domain.” His lips repeatedly furled and unfurled against gritted teeth while calloused hands, which had previously rested within his greatcoat’s deep pockets, balled at his sides. Starting at his neck, his already pink face steadily flushed as if port had spilt under his skin. He snarled, “How daare you, you uncouth wretch.” “Continue as you are, Captain Winchester, and I will be calling upon the officers at Bow Street,” Miss Trent promised despite his stale-rum-drenched breath turning her stomach. Whether it was the tone of her voice, her fixed gaze, the words themselves, or a combination of all three which cooled Bennett Winchester’s rage was unclear. Regardless the result was the same. After some aggressive chewing of his anger, the captain plonked himself in the vacant armchair. The clerk wasn’t naïve enough to think it ended, however. Instead, she enabled additional calming time by fetching tea from the kitchen. Coffee would’ve been more sobering for him but, alas, she suspected such a blatant assumption wouldn’t have been welcomed by his volatile temper. In due course Captain Winchester’s pallid complexion had returned and his hands had come to rest upon his thighs. She poured the amber liquid in silence and he accepted the cup without remark. “I must beg your pardon for my brutishness, Miss Trent,” he muttered against the steam rising from his cup.

The grinding poverty of the Depression years had already stamped the older faces with a gaunt gray pallor, but the prospect of a gift, of some slight change from the ordinary, the elusive Christmas Spirit, had animated thin faces and brought hope to defeated eyes. Each newcomer joined the group silently, without any greeting to his neighbor. They were proud and independent people. Accepting any kind of outside help went against their grain, but they had put aside their pride this night so that their children might receive some token of Christmas which they themselves were unable to provide.

She had learnt to put pride aside early in life to secure a roof over her head.

Although, I have put aside five hundred thousand as dowries for each of my nieces and—

I love you. There is no limit to what I can give to you, no time I need. Even when this world is forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you.” “Aelin Galathynius had raised an army not just to challenge Morath, but to rattle the stars.” “You will find, Rolfe, that one does not deal with Celaena Sardothien. One survives her” “Nameless is my price.” “A court that wouldn't just change the world. It would start the world over.” “Aelin had promised herself, months and months ago, that she would not pretend to be anything but what she was. She had crawled through darkness and blood and despair-she had survived.” “Aelin was insane, Dorian realized. Brilliant and wicked, but insane.” “Rowan considered for a moment, and then said, 'I have known many kings in my life, Dorian Havilliard. And it was a rare man indeed who asked for help when he needed it, who would put aside pride.'” “The Queen of Flame and Shadow, the Heir of Fire, Aelin of the Wildfire, Fireheart…” “And Elide sobbed as Manon Blackbeak emerged, smiling faintly. As Manon Blackbeak saw her and Aelin, knee-to-knee in the grass, and mouthed one word. Hope.” “The sunlight gilded the balcony as Asterin whispered, so softly that only Manon could hear, 'Bring my body back to the cabin.' Something in Manon's chest broke—broke so violently that she wondered if it was possible for no one to have heard it.” “That cocky smile widened. 'Hello, bitch,' Ansel purred. 'Hello, traitor,' Aelin purred right back... "\'Meet Ansel of Briarcliff, assassin and Queen of the Western Wastes.'” “And Manon understood in that moment that there were forces greater than obedience, and discipline, and brutality. Understood that she had not been born soulless; she had not been born without a heart. For there were both, begging her not to swing that blade.