Quincy Me Quotes

He loves history. He wanted to write a biography of John Quincy Adams. I, shamefully, knew almost nothing about John Quincy Adams, so I went online and bought every biography of him I could find. One day, he called me, claiming that we wouldn’t work out long term. He said he loved me but that we had different interests. “What does love mean to you?” I said. “That’s an impossible question,” he replied. I, however, find love to be quite simple. Love is the stack of biographies on my nightstand with a bookmark near the end

I waited a long time for you, love. I’ll wait as long as you need. You are mine.” And he was here in Quincy to claim me.

The historian must have no country. —JOHN QUINCY ADAMS

There’s such a thing as too much sweetness, Quincy, he told me. All the best bakers know this. There needs to be a counterpoint. Something dark. Or bitter. Or sour. Unsweetened chocolate. Cardamom and cinnamon. Lemon and lime. They cut through all the sugar, taming it just enough so that when you do taste the sweetness, you appreciate it all the more.

Thus situated, the perilous experiment must be made. Let me make it with full deliberations, and be prepared for the consequences.

Do you think a commoner should dare to dress like a blue blood?” Rhys asked as Quincy pulled the hem of the robe over his legs. “I believe every man ought to dress as well as he is able.” Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think it’s right for people to judge a man for what he wears?” “It is not for me to decide whether it is right, sir. The fact is, they do.

Tie me, tease me, let your pleasure please me. Hurt me, love me, but please don’t ever leave me…

With that, Quincy brought the bowie knife down on Moon's cuffed hand and chopped off four fingers which flew up before my eyes like chips from a log. Moon screamed and a rifle ball shattered the lantern in front of me and struck Quincy in the neck, causing hot blood to spurt on my face. My thought was: I am better out of this.

I am here, Bella. Let me cherish you as you deserve. - Sebastian Stanhope

To me, a doctor’s preparations for work of any kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on both Arthur and Quincy was to cause them a sort of consternation.

I was in bed at my beach house, but could not sleep because of some fried chicken in the icebox that I felt entitled to. I waited till my wife dropped off, and tiptoed into the kitchen. I remembered looking at the clock. It was precisely four-fifteen. I'm quite certain of this, because our kitchen clock has not worked in twenty-one years and is always at that time. I also noticed that our dog, Judas, was acting funny. He was sanding up on his hind legs and singing, 'I Enjoy Being a Girl.' Suddenly the room turned bright orange. At first, I thought my wife had caught me eating between meals and set fire to the house. Then I looked out the window, where to my amazement I saw a gigantic cigar-shaped aircraft hovering just over the treetops in the yard and emitting an orange glow. I stood transfixed for what must have been several hours, though our clock still read four-fifteen, so it was difficult to tell. Finally, a large, mechanical claw extended from the aircraft and snatched the two pieces of chicken from my hand and quickly retreated. When I reported the incident to the Air Force, they told me that what I had seen was a flock of birds. When I protested, Colonel Quincy Bascomb personally promised that the Air Force would return the two pieces of chicken. To this day, I have only received one piece.

We are all a little bit broken, she tells me (the reason she doesn’t sleep at night?), but we all work on fixing ourselves.

Did you know that seventy-five to eighty percent of juvenile offenders can’t read at grade level?” “Really?” This was news to me. “Your world becomes a much smaller place if you can’t read. You have far fewer options. It’s not the only factor, but it’s a big one. If they want to know how big to build a prison, all they have to do is look at the illiteracy statistics.” “They knew I was coming.” “You or someone like you.” “You knew it too, all those years ago, back in Quincy. That’s why you tried to help me. Because you knew I was coming here.” “Here or someplace like here.

Not one drop of my self-worth depends on your acceptance of me

I waited a long time for you, love. I’ll wait as long as you need. You are mine.” And he was here in Quincy to claim me.

If slavery be the destined sword of the hand of the destroying angel which is to sever the ties of this Union, the same sword will cut in sunder the bonds of slavery itself. A dissolution of the Union for the cause of slavery would be followed by a servile war in the slave-holding States, combined with a war between the two severed portions of the Union. It seems to me that its result might be the extirpation of slavery from this whole continent; and, calamitous and desolating as this course of events in its progress must be, so glorious would be its final issue, that, as God shall judge me, I dare not say that it is not to be desired.

As they walked down the stairs to the wide sidewalk, Quincy said, “I never thought you for a churchgoer, Arch.” “You forced me to it, St. Claire. Some demons drive a man to the bottle, some demons drive a man to the church.

Each second neared our last. We danced. “Kieren . . .” “Shhh . . .” We danced. “I’ll be okay.” Was that me lying? Or him? We danced. “Close your eyes,” he whispered, brushing his lips against mine. “Know that I’m missing you already and that you’ll always be in my prayers.” When I opened my eyes, I stood alone in the middle of the dance floor.

Well, listen, anger doesn't get anything done, so you have to find out: How do you make it work? That's why I was always maniacal about transforming every problem into a puzzle which I can solve. I can solve a puzzle—a problem just stresses me out.

There’s no such a thing as too much sweetness, Quincy”, he told me. “All the best bakers know this. There needs to be a counterpoint. Something dark. Or bitter. Or sour. Unsweetened chocolate. Cardamom and cinnamon. Lemon and lime. They cut through all the sugar, taming it just enough so that when you do taste the sweetness, you appreciate it all the more.

He asked, looking at her dark-rimmed eyes, "You do not sleep?" She shivered. "No. I do not want to sleep any more. I sleep too much already. It is so cold, where Quincy sends me in my sleep. Deep into the house, farther in, not into the house we see. It is as if that house were a face, and when you see a face you can't see the brain or the thoughts of the person behind it. And it is so strange - the house inside the house." ******** "How is it strange - this that you call the house inside the house?" She said vaguely, her eyes growing glassy, "Strange. Shapes change, and sizes. The rooms are different: bigger and blacker and longer and the shadows are full of things. Creatures - or sometimes the rooms get smaller, fewer, and the furnishings change and change, like the scenes in a kaleidoscope, and I see the people in the portraits walking about in them.

Because I was tired of strangers vaguely recognizing it when I was introduced to them. Because I hated the way their features froze, if only for a second, when their memories clicked. Because it made me sick knowing my name and His will forever be associated. Coop ultimately talked me out of it. He said I should hold on to my name as a stubborn point of pride. Changing it wouldn’t separate the name Quincy Carpenter from the horrors of Pine Cottage. Keeping it could, if I moved on and made something of myself.

can’t do this. I suck at this. Which is why they’re making me go. Not to improve my swimming—who cares about that?—but to work on that whole playing-well-with-others thing. Another one of my broken bits. I don’t want to socialize with other kids. I don’t trust ’em, I don’t like ’em, and best I can tell, the feeling’s mutual.

It’s worse than I thought.” “How bad is that?” His voice went up a little on the end, like he was fighting off panic. I didn’t blame him. I was a little, too, and it wasn’t my little girl up there. Of course, I did have to live in this dimension, so demons running loose sounded like a terrible idea to me. “Your daughter is dead. I’m very sorry.

Oh! God, my only trust went there Through all life's scenes before Lo! At the throne again I bow, New mercies to implore. Grant active power, grant fervent zeal, And guide by thy control, And ever be my country's weal The purpose of my soul. Extend, all seeing God, thy hand In memory still decree And make, to bless thy native land An instrument of me. -September 21, 1817

attempting to close the gaps between genres has allowed me to defy what is traditionally possible. I’ve never stayed within a single lane. Instead, as soon as I reach the end of one, I hop right on over to the next. I’ve tried my best to encourage musicians to do the same by inviting them to collaborate with other artists they would normally never think to work with. You can

Mr. Quincy told me that he will be working for you in London. I am glad, for both your sakes, that you’ve given him such an opportunity. He will be an excellent valet.” “For what I’m paying him,” Winterborne said, “he’d better be the best in England.” Helen was briefly nonplussed. “I have no doubt he will be,” she ventured. Meticulously Winterborne neatened the stack of paper. “He wants to start by disposing of my shirts.” “Your shirts,” Helen repeated, perplexed. “One of my managers brought some of my clothes from London. Quincy could tell that the shirts were ready-made.” He glanced at her warily, assessing her reaction. “To be accurate,” he continued, “they’re sold half finished, so they can be tailored to the customer’s preference. The quality of the fabric is as high as any bespoke shirt, but Quincy still turns up his nose.” Helen considered her reply carefully. “A man of Quincy’s profession has an exacting eye when it comes to details.” She probably should have left it at that. The discussion of a man’s clothing was entirely improper, but she felt that she should help him to understand Quincy’s concerns. “It’s more than just the fabric. The stitching is different in a bespoke shirt: The seams are perfectly straight and flat-felled, and the buttonholes are often hand-worked with a keyhole shape at one side to reduce the stress of the button’s shank.” She paused with a smile. “I would elaborate about plackets and cuffs, but I fear you would fall asleep in the chair.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and get lost in a sea of blue. A Jersey-accented voice says, “It’s about time, kid,” and Frank Sinatra rattles the ice in his glass of Jack Daniel’s. Looking at the swirling deep-brown liquid, he whispers, “Ain’t it beautiful?” This is my introduction to the Chairman of the Board. We spend the next half hour talking Jersey, Hoboken, swimming in the Hudson River and the Shore. We then sit down for dinner at a table with Robert De Niro, Angie Dickinson and Frank and his wife, Barbara. This is all occurring at the Hollywood “Guinea Party” Patti and I have been invited to, courtesy of Tita Cahn. Patti had met Tita a few weeks previous at the nail parlor. She’s the wife of Sammy Cahn, famous for such songs as “All The Way,” “Teach Me Tonight” and “Only the Lonely.” She called one afternoon and told us she was hosting a private event. She said it would be very quiet and couldn’t tell us who would be there, but assured us we’d be very comfortable. So off into the LA night we went. During the evening, we befriend the Sinatras and are quietly invited into the circle of the last of the old Hollywood stars. Over the next several years we attend a few very private events where Frank and the remaining clan hold forth. The only other musician in the room is often Quincy Jones, and besides Patti and I there is rarely a rocker in sight. The Sinatras are gracious hosts and our acquaintance culminates in our being invited to Frank’s eightieth birthday party dinner. It’s a sedate event at the Sinatras’ Los Angeles home. Sometime after dinner, we find ourselves around the living room piano with Steve and Eydie Gorme and Bob Dylan. Steve is playing the piano and up close he and Eydie can really sing the great standards. Patti has been thoroughly schooled in jazz by Jerry Coker, one of the great jazz educators at the Frost School of Music at the University of Miami. She was there at the same time as Bruce Hornsby, Jaco Pastorius and Pat Metheny, and she learned her stuff. At Frank’s, as the music drifts on, she slips gently in on “My One and Only Love.” Patti is a secret weapon. She can sing torch like a cross between Peggy Lee and Julie London (I’m not kidding). Eydie Gorme hears Patti, stops the music and says, “Frank, come over here. We’ve got a singer!” Frank moves to the piano and I then get to watch my wife beautifully serenade Frank Sinatra and Bob Dylan, to be met by a torrent of applause when she’s finished. The next day we play Frank’s eightieth birthday celebration for ABC TV and I get to escort him to the stage along with Tony Bennett. It’s a beautiful evening and a fitting celebration for the greatest pop singer of all time. Two years later Frank passed away and we were generously invited to his funeral. A

The Lord saw fit to lead me some time by simple faith—a childlike dependence on the Word of God. And then, when I was emptied of self, I was filled with glory and with God. For the first time in my life, my soul was continually satisfied. My need was all supplied. Oh, the fulness of Jesus ! I was saved, fully saved from sin. Years have passed since I received from the Lord the blessing I sought of him—entire sanctification. During that time, oh, what a change has taken place in me. I am no longer the desponding, unhappy creature I was. I do not now grow weary of life. I love to have the will of God done; and as long as he sees fit to keep me here, I am willing to stay. Surely, I am a wonderful “miracle of grace.” The Lord has indeed done great things for me, whereof I am glad. I have often thought I was a poor, unworthy creature, but I have never known my unworthiness as I know it now. Oh, how I have been led to loathe myself; and how I have sunk in self-abasement at the foot of the cross, completely overwhelmed with a view of self. And oh, how sweet to have Jesus take me, and wash me in his own precious blood, and realize that I am cleansed. Oh, how fully Jesus does save. My greatest desire now, is to live for Jesus; to glorify him by my looks, my actions, my walk, and even the tones of my voice. I am led to see my own weakness more and more each day, and this leads me to look to Jesus each moment. And when, in view of my vileness, I am led to exclaim: ‘* Every moment, Lord, I need, The merit of Thy death,” I can, by divine grace, triumphantly add : ” Every moment, Lord, I have The merit of Thy death. I am, indeed, A poor sinner, and nothing at all, But Jesus Christ is my all in all.

And his ass needs to drop the fuck out too,” Xaveria insisted. “Bruh, I don’t mean any harm, but NuNu is the last person that needs to be trying to dress anybody. Hell Stevie Wonder wouldn’t even let that nigga dress him,” Quincy laughed. “Well how about you let me and Xaveria plan the wedding and you and NuNu can plan the baby shower?” I threw out there.

I was not able to sleep that night. To be honest, I didn’t even try. I stood in front of my living room window, staring out at the bright lights of New York City. I don’t know how long I stood there; in fact, I didn’t see the millions of multicolored lights or the never-ending streams of headlights and taillights on the busy streets below. Instead, I saw, in my mind’s eye, the crowded high school classrooms and halls where my friends and I had shared triumphs and tragedies, where the ghosts of our past still reside. Images flickered in my mind. I saw the faces of teachers and fellow students I hadn’t seen in years. I heard snatches of songs I had rehearsed in third period chorus. I saw the library where I had spent long hours studying after school. Most of all, I saw Marty. Marty as a shy sophomore, auditioning for Mrs. Quincy, the school choir director. Marty singing her first solo at the 1981 Christmas concert. Marty at the 1982 Homecoming Dance, looking radiant after being selected as Junior Princess. Marty sitting alone in the chorus practice room on the last day of our senior year. I stared long and hard at those sepia-colored memories. And as my mind carried me back to the place I had sworn I’d never return to, I remembered.

Then I closed my eyes and let the rhythm of his heartbeat seep into my soul. “Merry Christmas.” He kissed my hair and pulled me tighter into his embrace. “Merry Christmas.

Being with Cleo . . . there weren’t words to describe how well two people fit together. Never in my life had there been a woman like her and never would there be another. She’d destroyed me. She’d changed the path of my life. I wasn’t sure what we were going to do but giving her up wasn’t an option. “What are we going to do?” she asked, plucking the thought from my head.

Quincy, I’m, I’m . . . not prepared to do an audition,” I stammered. “I didn’t know, when you called, you know, what we were doing and all that.” “It’s only a couple of scenes. I got some people out there who will read with you. You just gotta be you and have fun.” “Quincy, I can not do an audition in the middle of a party. I need to prepare, I just need some time, to work on it.” “OK, I hear that—how much time you need?” Quincy asked. “I mean, just, uh, give me a week, and I’ll find an acting coach, and I can study it, so I can do it, not just read it.” Quincy considered my words. “OK, so you need a week?” “Yes, a week, a week is perfect!” “OK, so you know what’s gonna happen in a week?” Quincy asked. But before I could answer, he said, “Brandon Tartikoff is going to have an emergency on one of his shows and he’s gonna have to fly to Kansas to fire somebody. Then he’s gonna have to reschedule for the following week.” “Oh, cool, cool! Two weeks would be even better,” I said, missing the subtleties of Quincy’s point. “Right, two weeks. Then Warren Littlefield is gonna have something at his kids’ elementary school that he forgot was on the schedule he can’t get out of because his wife’s going to tear him a new one if he doesn’t show up. And he’s gonna have to reschedule for two weeks after that.

I didn’t confront the Dominionists directly, instead choosing to minister to the sick and hungry New Orleanians who arrived in DeQuincy in Katrina’s wake. But inside, I fumed at the Dominionist faction at Grace. Katrina was not about God’s judgment; it was about a storm that started as a low-pressure zone that slowly, dangerously grew into a tropical wave of low pressure. Katrina had a natural cause, not a supernatural cause. What flooded New Orleans and sent its citizenry into exile was not, as the Dominionists at Grace argued, God running spiritually corrupt, lost souls out of town but rather a catastrophically flawed levee system constructed by human hands. Besides, I believed that what we did to help those affected by the storm—not why the storm or its destruction happened—was what mattered. My Katrina-era messages were just blandly positive—I preached that the storm was a moment to prove to God just how loving we could be to one another—but the Dominionists at Grace were furious nonetheless. “Are you really saying,” they chided me after Sunday services, “that it doesn’t matter how people in New Orleans live? That they can be saved if they’re alcoholics?” I was unflinching in my answer. “Yes, “ I replied sternly, “that’s exactly what I’m saying.” The Dominionists simply shook their heads in disgust at my apostasy.

And before Mateo could say another word, I pressed my lips to his, holding that soft mouth for two aching heartbeats before I pulled away. He stared at me, his face unreadable. “I’m done waiting for you to see me.” I flew from the bar. I ran. And as I raced down Quincy’s sidewalks, I put my love for Mateo away. I shoved it in that locked box. And buried it down deep.

As my daddy repeatedly taught me, if you commit to something, you gotta go all the way with it. If you take a good look around, you’ll find that a lot of people ideate but not many of them execute. It’s a long road from ideation to execution. You have to be emotionally ready to put the required energy into whatever it is you are striving for because, if you don’t, you’ll hop into a vehicle with no gas. For many of us out there, we can’t afford to miss that first shot. Always be prepared for a great opportunity.

when I started scoring films, the toughest parts of the creative process were spent trying to scrape away all of the unnecessary thoughts running around in my head—from internal feelings of unworthiness to external voices that verbally told me I wasn’t good enough. I had to keep chipping away at all of those thoughts until there was absolutely nothing left but the truth—that is, my soul and the message it wanted to communicate. Having tried it myself, I don’t think you can write or create anything worthwhile if you suppress your instincts and emotions. You’ve got to be sitting deep in truth in order to create truth.

BECKETT: Do you know what I dream of, Difford? Do you know what I think about every night? I dream of the day I see my wife again. I picture sliding my hands around her neck and feeling her hands flail against my chest. I envision choking her to the edge of unconsciousness. And then, while she’s lying there, staring at me helplessly, I pick up a dull Swiss Army knife and hack off her fingers one by one. Then her ears. Then her nose. And then, then I cut out her beating heart. I’ll do it someday, Difford. And when I do, I’ll mail her heart to you. Lieutenant

Quincy, however, didn’t seem ready to lose his new friend. He tucked his head under Ashley’s arm, looked up with adoring eyes and licked her on her cheek and neck. His tail wagged so hard, its breeze gave Kristin goose bumps. “He likes me!” The delight in Ashley’s voice was unmistakable as she hugged the big canine.

Sociobiologist Edward O. Wilson later said that there should be a “consilience” between art and science. 79 Former NASA astronaut Mae Jemison took selected images with her on her first trip to space, including a poster of dancer and former artistic director of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater Judith Jamison performing the dance Cry, and a Bundu statue from Sierra Leone, because, as she said, “the creativity that allowed us . . . to conceive and build and launch the space shuttle, springs from the same source as the imagination and analysis it took to carve a Bundu statue, or the ingenuity it took to design, choreograph, and stage ‘Cry.’ . . . That’s what we have to reconcile in our minds, how these things fit together.” 80 As a jazz musician once told me, musicians are mathematicians as well as artists. Morse’s story suggests that the argument started not because of the need to bring art and science together, but because they were once not so far apart. 81 When Frank Jewett Mather Jr. of The Nation stated that Morse “was an inventor superimposed upon an artist,” it was factually true. 82 Equally true is that Morse could become an inventor because he was an artist all the while. In one of the final paintings that laid him flat, the painting that failed to secure his last attempt at a commission, one he had worked fifteen years to achieve, Morse may have left a clue about his shift from art to invention, and the fact that the skills required for both are the same. He painted The House of Representatives (1822–23) as evidence of his suitability for a commission from Congress to complete a suite of paintings that still adorn the U.S. Capitol building. The painting has an odd compositional focus. In the center is a man screwing in an oil chandelier, preoccupied with currents. Morse was “rejected beyond hope of appeal” by the congressional commission led by John Quincy Adams. When he toured the picture for seven weeks—displayed in a coffee house in Salem, Massachusetts, and at exhibitions in New York, Boston, Middleton, and Hartford, Connecticut—it lost twenty dollars in the first two weeks. Compounded by a litany of embarrassing, near-soul-stealing artistic failures, he took to his bed for weeks, “more seriously depressed than ever.” This final rejection forced him to shift his energies to his telegraph invention. 83 By 1844 Morse went to the Capitol focused on a current that would occupy the work of Congress—obtaining a patent for the telegraph.

If I owned a volume, I would beg you to print ten thousand copies on your presses and distribute them in the streets of every city in Europe.” “You’d have to show me a way to make a profit from it first,” Quincy responded evenly. “Arch tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, returning to his book as he answered, “I would build an argument so enticing and passionate you couldn’t deny me.

Arch leaned back into his chair, but he was entertaining a smile. “There are few things more tedious than a friend who will not graciously receive.” Quincy could have explained that nine years of poverty might have something to do with it, but instead she just replied, “You must find me maddening, then.” Arch’s mouth twitched. “You, ma chérie, are something else entirely.

Crazy thing is, everybody is coming down on me, but they never said a bad word about Quincy. He’s just as guilty as I am, but they don’t seem to feel that way. My mama said that I seduced him, but it was actually him who came to me first.

Denny gave me a strange look when I showed up in the band room, but I have always believed playing drums is no excuse not to look cute. Besides, if McDaniel shows up, I want to look my best. Oh, crap, I should be paying attention. “Did you hear anything I said?” I answer honestly, “No.” Denny runs a hand through his spiked hair and asks, “Do you really want to learn how to march?” “I have to learn to march if I want to be a part of the section, right?” “Right.” “Then, it doesn’t really matter if I want to do anything. It’s something I have to do.” Denny looks confused and partially like he’s completely regretting the decision to add me to his section, but proceeds to teach me drill for the better part of two hours. While we run through the steps, I look longingly over at my quints, which I have secretly decided to name Quincy.

A pair of plush white slippers greeted me from inside.

I’d been blind to it before, but as he kissed and sucked and licked, it all became clear. The insults. The critiques. The dismissals. He’d used them all as tools to keep me away.

I want the building to be welcoming, but I don’t want to pretend nothing happened. I want us to move on, but I don’t want us to forget. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do all that. When I was training to be a principal, the biggest threat we could imagine was an earthquake. They certainly hadn’t started the duck-and-run drills in the L.A. schools for drive-by shootings. Nor had they ever envisioned that schools would become war zones for rival gangs and street disputes. Now we have teachers and students dying in the halls. Small towns, big towns, black, white, upper class, lower class—it doesn’t seem to matter. And the human in me wants to rail against that, wants to live in denial, while the principal in me knows I can’t do that. I have an obligation to my students. If this is the world we live in, then this is the world I must prepare them for. But how do I do that? I’m not sure I’m prepared for this world. I know Miss Avalon wasn’t.

In this new, curiously sealed habitat of mine, the fondness and trust I felt toward those I worked with and the kindness and support they showed me and my family were a saving grace. This was true for Ray Rogers and Quincy Jackson, the two young navy valets assigned to the Oval Office, who served refreshments to visitors and whipped up a solid lunch for me every day in the tiny kitchenette wedged next to the dining space.

I think it’s great that you think about…your mother, quincies, the future, all kinds of things before you act. I respect that about you. But…I’m not like you. For me, ‘taking care of myself’ means doing what I can, when I can.

I tore my eyes from the bright lights accompanying Neosordess, as he’d called it, and stared at the few stars twinkling overhead, flickering in acknowledgement of my attention. “Thank you,” I whispered only loud enough for me and the stars to hear, “for keeping me sane and for reminding me of who I once was.” I shifted my gaze back down to the city again and closed my eyes to shut out its light.

Austin Myles had kissed me.

Despite what everyone assumed about me—Cleo Hillcrest, only daughter of tech mogul and billionaire Ray Hillcrest—I wasn’t frivolous with my money. I was paying for this room on my own, with wages I’d earned, not inherited. I’d flown to Quincy on three commercial flights, though I had splurged for first class.

And she hated me to boot. Well, as close to hate as Cleo could come. She was too good, too sweet, to truly hate. But her brand of hatred was exactly how I preferred things between us. How I’d designed it. As soon as I hauled her home to California, we could go back to the way things had been. Me, pretending like she didn’t exist. Her, cursing the day I’d been born. Harmony.

The only deal Ray had made was with me. My team was to ensure Cleo’s safety from an unnoticeable distance.

Ray owned a cybersecurity company that had boomed over the past thirty years. Mirror Networks was valued at over fifteen billion dollars, and as the founder and CEO, Ray had a level of wealth that was impossible for me to comprehend. He’d had a physical security company on his payroll for over twenty years. The company before mine had been his long-time provider, but when one of the bodyguards had hit on Cleo and made her uncomfortable, he’d terminated the contract immediately, as any father should. I would have done the same. That was four years ago

Leave. Get out. My mind screamed for me to walk out the door because this was my client’s daughter, but my body was fighting for the other team. The team that wanted me to cross the room, pull Cleo into my arms and find out if she tasted as sweet as her confections.

Austin Myles usually got his way. I wouldn’t put it past him to toss me over his shoulder and cart me out of here if he so desired.

At first, I’d worried that he suspected my crush. That he thought of me as that silly girl six years his junior. Then his true colors had shown. The reason Austin avoided me like the mall on Black Friday was because he didn’t like me.

Frasi iniziali Bleach Vol. #1-46 "Noi temiano ciò che non possiamo vedere" (Volume 1 - The Death And The Strawberry - Ichigo) "Le persone hanno speranza perché la morte è invisibile ai loro occhi" (Volume 2 - Goodbye Parakeet, Goodinte My Sista - Rukia) "Se io fossi pioggia che riesce ad unire cielo e terra divisi in eterno potrei riuscire ad unire due anime allo stesso modo? (Volume 3 - Memories In The Rain - Orihime) Siamo attratti l'uno verso l'altro come gocce d'acqua, come i pianeti ci respingiamo l'uno contro l'altro come i magneti, come il colore della pelle. (Volume 4 - Quincy Archer Hates You - Ishida) "Se non impugno una spada non posso difenderti, se impugno una spada non posso abbracciarti." (Volume 5 - Rightarm Of The Giant - Chad) "Già, per noi non esiste il destino. Soltanto chi, inghiottito dall'ignoranza e dalla paura, mette il piede in fallo scivola nelle torbide acque chiamate destino (Volume 6 - The Death Trilogy Overture - Urahara) "Non dobbiamo piangere che è la resa del corpo nei confronti del cuore, nient'altro che la prova che non siamo in grado di gestire ciò che chiamiamo cuore." (Volume 7 - The Broken Coda - Byakuya) "Se arrugginisce, non potrà più trafiggere se perdi la presa, ti taglierà Già, l'orgoglio è simile a una spada" (Volume 8 - The Blade and Me - Zangetsu) "Già, noi tutti sogniamo ad occhi aperti di volare in cielo." (Volume 9 - Fourteen Days for Conspiracy - Kukaku Shiba) "Noi allunghiamo le braccia spazziamo via le nuvole penetriamo il cielo e afferriamo la Luna e Marte ma non riusciamo ancora a raggiungere la verità" (Volume 10 - Tattoo on the Sky - Ganju Shiba) "Darò fuoco a queste zanne che non possono raggiungere così da non vedere quella stella così da non dover tagliare questa gola." (Volume 11 - A Star and a Stray Dog - Renji) "Pensiamo che un fiore cresciuto sul ciglio di un precipizio sia bello, perché i nostri piedi si fermano sul quel ciglio. Non riusciamo ad avanzare su quel cielo come quel fiore impavido." (Volume 12 - Flower on the Precipice - Aizen) "Ogni volta che rinunciamo al nostro orgoglio, ci avviciniamo di un passo alla bestia. Ogni volta che soffochiamo il nostro cuore, ci allontaniamo di un passo alla bestia." (Volume 13 - The Undead - Zaraki Kenpachi) "Scricchiola, scricchiola, torre del Purgatorio, che squarci il mondo come la luce. Trema, trema, torre della spina dorsale, a precipitare saremo noi o il cielo? " (Volume 14 - White Tower Rocks - Hanataro Yamada) "Io non farò altro che esercitarmi a dirti addio." (Volume 15 - The Beginning of the Death of Tomorrow - Kira) "La criniera del sole si riversa a terra cancellando le orme sul ghiaccio sottile Non temere di venire ingannato il mondo sorge già sull'inganno" (Volume 16 - Night of Wijnruit - Hitsugaya) "Rosso come il sangue bianco come le ossa rosso come la solitudine bianco come il silenzio rosso come i nervi di una belva bianco come il cuore di un dio rosso come l'odio che sgorga sciogliendoti bianco come il dolore che ti agghiaccia rosso come l'ombra che divora la notte come un sospiro che trapassa la luna splende di bianco, si spegne di rosso." (Volume 17 - Rosa Rubicundior, Lilio Candidior - Yoruichi) "La tua ombra furtiva come un ago avvelenato senza destinazione cuce il mio cammino. La tua luce flessuosa come un fulmine che colpisce una torre piezometrica tronca la fonte della mia vita." (Volume 18 - The Deathberry Returns - Soi Fong) "Sì, niente e nessuno può cambiare il mio mondo." (Volume 19 - The Black Moon Rising - Ichigo) "Chi paragona l'amore alla bellezza non conosce il volto dell'amore. Chi paragona l'amore alla bruttezza vanta di aver conosciuto l'amore." (Volume 20 - End of Hypnosis - Gin) "Tutto a questo mondo esiste per metterti con le spalle al muro." (Volume 21 - Be My Family or Not - Shinji)

Frasi inizio Bleach Volume 56 – March of the starcross – Quilge Opie L'armata marcia al suono della tromba Il ronzio nelle orecchie non si arresta, come polvere di stelle Il rombo degli stivali, come il tuono Volume 57 – OUT OF BLOOM – Byakuya Kuchiki Benché una volta sfioriti rifiorire non potremo come fiamme con leggiadria sfioriremo Volume 58 – THE FIRE – Shigekuni Genryūsai Yamamoto Arde l'anima benché scenda la pioggia Volume 59 – THE BATTLE – Retsu Unohana La battaglia è tutto. Volume 60 – EVERYTHING BUT THE RAIN – Masaki Kurosaki Nella tua innocenza, tu sei come il sole anche nella tua colpevolezza sei come il sole Volume 61 – THE LAST 9 DAYS – Vecchio Zangetsu (Manifestazione dei poteri Quincy di Ichigo) Io credo fermamente che il mondo sia saturo di pericoli e il mio desiderio di proteggerti da esso nasce proprio perché dentro di me esiste un impulso della stessa natura di quel pericolo Volume 62 – HEART OF WOLF – Sajin Komamura Continua a combattere per tutta la vita finché il tuo cuore resta armato di zanne Volume 63 – HEAR, FEAR, HERE – Äs Nödt Non vi è differenza tra il vivere e l'essere lasciato vivere Come non vi è differenza tra il morire e l'essere ucciso Volume 64 – DEATH IN VISION – Gremmy Thomeaux La bellezza è che lì non vi sia nulla Volume 65 – MARCHING OUT THE ZOMBIES – Giselle Gewelle Mi piaci. Da morire.

Being with Cleo . . . there weren’t words to describe how well two people fit together. Never in my life had there been a woman like her and never would there be another. She’d destroyed me. She’d changed the path of my life. I wasn’t sure what we were going to do but giving her up wasn’t an option.

It’s not that I need you with me every second or need to know what you’re doing every minute. I just like being with you. I guess I never realized I’m such a planner, but I’d like to know if we’re going to see each other or not.” Angela walked back into the room and said, “Okay, you two. Time to wrap it up. This dance isn’t going to choreograph itself.” “I’ll walk you out,” Roni said to Quincy. “Back in a minute, Ang.” She walked Quincy out to his truck, so relieved she had a bounce in her step.

This is the weakness of my nature, which I have intellect enough left to perceive, but not energy to control. . . . The world will retire from me before I shall retire from the world.” If

The world shall retire from me before I shall retire from the world. John Quincy Adams

And through the ranks of happy and shouting animals Mrs. Wiggins came slowly forward. There were tears in her eyes when she faced them—good big honest tears, such as only a generous-hearted cow like Mrs. Wiggins can shed. “Well, dear me,” she said, “I must say you animals have gone through a lot to make me your president. So I guess the only thing I can do is to be as good a one as I can. And I expect the thing I’d like you to do best is to just go on doing the things you want to do, as you always have. As for you, John Quincy and X—” She looked up into the elm. “Oh, well, they’ve gone. Just as well, I guess. So now, animals, I thank you. I guess that’s all I’ve got to say.

To Helen’s great relief, Quincy arrived with the dinner tray. The valet’s white brows lifted fractionally as he saw her alone in the room with Winterborne, but he said nothing. As Quincy proceeded to arrange the flatware, glasses, and plate on the table, Helen regained her composure. She stood from the upholstered bench and gave Winterborne a neutral smile. “I will leave you to enjoy your dinner.” His gaze swept over her, lingering at her face. “You’ll play for me again one evening?” “Yes, if you like.” She left the parlor gratefully, steeling herself not to break into a run.

He was aware of Quincy’s sturdy footsteps approaching. After a moment, the valet asked reproachfully, “Was it necessary to frighten Lady Trenear?” Rhys turned his head to give him a slitted glance. It was the first time Quincy had dared to speak to him so impudently. In the past, Rhys had fired more valuable men for far lesser remarks. Instead, he folded his arms and returned his attention to the street, loathing the world and everyone in it. “Aye,” he said with soft malice. “It made me feel better.

Will you like living in London, Quincy?” “I expect so, my lady. I will view it as an adventure. Perhaps it will be just the thing to blow the cobwebs out.” She had given him a tremulous smile. “I will miss you, Quincy.” The valet had remained composed, but his eyes had turned suspiciously bright. “When you visit London, my lady, I trust you will remember that I’m always at your service. You have only to send for me.” “I’m glad that you’re going to take care of Mr. Winterborne. He needs you.” “Yes,” Quincy had said feelingly. “He does.” It would take some time, Helen thought, for Quincy to become familiar with his new employer’s habits, preferences, and quirks. Fortunately Quincy had spent decades in the practice of managing volatile temperaments. Winterborne certainly couldn’t be any worse than the Ravenels.

Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable? Shall I send for tea or refreshments?” He shook his head. “Quincy will bring a tray soon.” She wasn’t certain how to reply. It had been easier to talk to him when he had been ill and helpless. “Mr. Quincy told me that he will be working for you in London. I am glad, for both your sakes, that you’ve given him such an opportunity. He will be an excellent valet.” “For what I’m paying him,” Winterborne said, “he’d better be the best in England.” Helen was briefly nonplussed. “I have no doubt he will be,” she ventured.

Mr. Quincy told me that he will be working for you in London. I am glad, for both your sakes, that you’ve given him such an opportunity. He will be an excellent valet.” “For what I’m paying him,” Winterborne said, “he’d better be the best in England.

What is it about?” “A lover who asks a blackbird to carry a message to his sweetheart.” “Why can’t he go to her himself?” Helen realized they were both speaking in hushed tones, as if they were exchanging secrets. “He can’t find her. He’s too deep in love--it keeps him from seeing clearly.” “Does the blackbird find her?” “The song doesn’t say,” he said with a shrug. “But I must know the ending to the story,” Helen protested. Winterborne laughed. It was an irresistible sound, rough-soft and sly. When he replied, his accent had thickened. “That’s what comes o’ reading novels, it is. The story needs no ending. That’s not what matters.” “What matters, then?” she dared to ask. His dark gaze held hers. “That he loves. That he’s searching. Like the rest of us poor devils, he has no way of knowing if he’ll ever have his heart’s desire.” And you? Helen longed to ask. What are you searching for? The question was too personal to ask even of someone she had known for a long time, much less a stranger. Even so, the words hovered on her tongue, begging to be spoken. She looked away and fought to hold them back. When she returned her gaze to Winterborne, his expression had become remote again. Which was a relief, because for a moment she’d had the alarming feeling that she was only a breath away from confiding every private thought and wish that she’d never told anyone. To Helen’s great relief, Quincy arrived with the dinner tray. The valet’s white brows lifted fractionally as he saw her alone in the room with Winterborne, but he said nothing. As Quincy proceeded to arrange the flatware, glasses, and plate on the table, Helen regained her composure. She stood from the upholstered bench and gave Winterborne a neutral smile. “I will leave you to enjoy your dinner.” His gaze swept over her, lingering at her face. “You’ll play for me again one evening?” “Yes, if you like.” She left the parlor gratefully, steeling herself not to break into a run.

What matters, then?” she dared to ask. His dark gaze held hers. “That he loves. That he’s searching. Like the rest of us poor devils, he has no way of knowing if he’ll ever have his heart’s desire.” And you? Helen longed to ask. What are you searching for? The question was too personal to ask even of someone she had known for a long time, much less a stranger. Even so, the words hovered on her tongue, begging to be spoken. She looked away and fought to hold them back. When she returned her gaze to Winterborne, his expression had become remote again. Which was a relief, because for a moment she’d had the alarming feeling that she was only a breath away from confiding every private thought and wish that she’d never told anyone. To Helen’s great relief, Quincy arrived with the dinner tray. The valet’s white brows lifted fractionally as he saw her alone in the room with Winterborne, but he said nothing. As Quincy proceeded to arrange the flatware, glasses, and plate on the table, Helen regained her composure. She stood from the upholstered bench and gave Winterborne a neutral smile. “I will leave you to enjoy your dinner.” His gaze swept over her, lingering at her face. “You’ll play for me again one evening?” “Yes, if you like.” She left the parlor gratefully, steeling herself not to break into a run.

What is your opinion of Lady Helen?” he asked as Quincy arranged the meal on the table in front of him. “She is the jewel of the Ravenels,” Quincy said. “A more kind-hearted girl you’ll never meet. Sadly, she’s always been overlooked. Her older brother received the lion’s share of her parents’ interest, and what little was left went to the twins.” Rhys had met the twins a few days earlier, both of them bright-eyed and amusing, asking a score of questions about his department store. He had liked the girls well enough, but neither of them had captured his interest. They were nothing close to Helen, whose reserve was mysterious and alluring. She was like a mother-of-pearl shell that appeared to be one color, but from different angles revealed delicate shimmers of lavender, pink, blue, green. A beautiful exterior that revealed little of its true nature. “Is she aloof with all strangers?” he asked, arranging a napkin on his lap. “Or is it only with me?” “Aloof?” The valet sounded genuinely surprised. Before he could continue, a pair of small black spaniels entered the parlor, panting happily as they bounded up to Rhys. “Good heavens,” he muttered with a frown. Rhys, who happened to like dogs, didn’t mind the interruption. What he found disconcerting, however, was the third animal that trotted into the room after them and sat assertively by his chair. “Quincy,” Rhys asked blankly, “why is there a pig in the parlor?” The valet, who was busy shooing the dogs from the room, said distractedly, “A family pet, sir. They try to keep him in the barn, but he will insist on coming into the house.” “But why--” Rhys broke off, realizing that regardless of the explanation, it would make no sense to him. “Why is it,” he asked instead, “that if I kept livestock in my home, people would say I was ignorant or daft, but if a pig wanders freely in the mansion of an earl, it’s called eccentric?” “There are three things that everyone expects of an aristocrat,” the valet replied, tugging firmly at the pig’s collar. “A country house, and a weak chin, and eccentricity.” He pushed and pulled at the pig with increasing determination, but the creature only sat more heavily. “I vow,” the valet wheezed, budging him only an inch at a time, “I’ll have you turned into sausage and collops by tomorrow’s breakfast!” Ignoring the determined valet, the pig stared up at Rhys with patient, hopeful eyes. “Quincy,” Rhys said, “look sharp.” He picked up a bread roll from his plate and tossed it casually in the air. The valet caught it deftly in a white-gloved hand. “Thank you, sir.” As he walked to the door with the bread in hand, the pig trotted after him. Rhys watched with a faint smile. “Desire,” he said, “is always better motivation than fear. Remember that, Quincy.

Papa, I have lawyers I can seek council from. Plus, I wouldn’t ask Quincy’s non-client having ass to help me with my laundry.

News traveled fast around the Ravenel household: By the time Devon came to visit Rhys later that evening, he was already aware of Quincy’s new position. “It appears you’ve begun to hire my servants away from me,” Devon said dryly.

So, you’re in love with the Smith girl?” Ben stumbled at his father’s question that was really more of a statement. “No. Not at all.” He forced a short laugh. “Of course I’m not in love with Susanna Smith.” “Well, you certainly fooled me tonight.” “I cannot deny I’m attracted to Susanna,” he admitted. “Who wouldn’t be? She’s intelligent, witty, and interesting.” “She sounds like the perfect match for you.” He wanted to agree. Susanna was everything Hannah was not. He thought about her more than he should. And even in her grandfather’s study earlier, he’d felt a pull toward her that was unbearably strong and difficult to resist. He knew he needed to control himself better around Susanna. Surely he would have less trouble with his attraction once he was finally engaged to Hannah. “I’m in the process of trying to propose marriage to Hannah Quincy.” His father plodded forward without missing a step. “Then you love Miss Quincy?” Did he love Hannah? Ben shook his head. “Sometimes there are factors more important than love.” “Then you are in love with her wealth rather than her person?” Ben wanted to rebut his father’s words—similar to those of Parson Wibird from earlier in the day—but something about his father’s bluntness kept him from doing so. “Hannah Quincy will give me what I currently lack, namely the status and approval of my peers.” His father was silent for a long moment, the steady scraping of their boots against the dirt road reminding Ben of the steadiness of the man by his side. He was a deacon of the church and had been the selectman of the town for years. There was not a nobler or more respected man among the community. “There’s more than one way to earn the approval of your peers.” His father spoke slowly as if weighing his words carefully. “And often the best way is through strength of character.

Nonsense, you are my cousin. We shall continue to see one another.” “Not if he sees how much I care for you. He could command me away from you.

that complicates shit, and that means it’s going to get even messier before I leave. I’m sorry for that. I really am. It won’t stop me, or even slow me down, but I promise to add it to the list of things I regret when I can’t sleep at night. If that helps.” “Something tells me it

Every day, my daddy told me the same thing. 'Once a task is just begun, never leave it till it's done. Be the labour great or small, do it well or not at all.

In 1846, Edward M. Linthicum greatly enlarged the residence and named it “The Oaks” for the ancient oaks that still stand majestically throughout the grounds. President John Quincy Adams’ Vice President, John C. Calhoun, occupied the home from 1882 through 1889. When the Blisses bought the property in 1920 they decided to name it Dumbarton Oaks, combining the two historic names. They increased the estate to fifty-four acres through the years.2

What’s the last picture you posted?” Serge asked. “Umm… me and Quincy on set this morning.” “And the one before that?” “Me and Quincy having dinner last night with Gustavo and Casey.” “And the one before that.” “Quincy hanging from a tree branch, trying to fix the lighting the way he wanted. He looked so funny. I don’t know why people don’t believe in evolution. We obviously descended from primates.” “And the one before that.” “Me and Quincy laying in a pile of leaves. Oh man, that was great. We jumped in it and everything.” Xander sighed. “Now look at Casey’s profile. What’s the common denominator for most of his pictures?” He searched for Casey’s Instagram and opened it. “Let’s see. There’s him and Gustavo. Gustavo. Gustavo. Him and Gustavo. Harry S. Truman. The We Three Queens. Gustavo. Gustavo. Gustavo and Casey. Gustavo and Casey. A loaded pipe. The B and B. Gustavo. Gustavo. Gustavo. Wow. You know, for someone who hates social media as much as Gustavo does, he’s sure in here a lot.” “And what does your page have in common with Casey’s?” Serge asked. Josy squinted down at his phone. “We use a lot of the same filters?

I spotted a canister and yanked it up. When I shook it, the sloshing and smell of gasoline made me grin.  "Stay here," I told Quincy. "I need to go inside that building."  He frowned as he ducked down beside me. "What? That's insane."  "Yeah." I gave him a smile as my confidence returned. "But I'm good at insane." 

I tried to contain my smile as I slid down further in the seat and propped my feet up on the dashboard. Quincy was okay, because of me. I mean, sure, his hands were bloody and we both reeked, but it seemed worth it. We had just done something together, something insane and fucked up, but it was together none-the-less. Damn, I felt like I was on top of the world.

Ms. Evans said that me and Quincy are the only Speddies graduating this year. I feel extra special about graduating. Like I done something good. We got in an adult program. We’ll live in a little house. Maybe we will even end up being friends together. And a counselor will check us. That makes me feel all safe and good. We even got jobs! I’m gonna clean house and do for an old lady. Our house is on top of her garage. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

Her eyes opened as I pressed the washcloth between her legs. “You make me forget.” “You make me forget too.” Forgetting wasn’t an option, not with what I’d come to Quincy to do. But that didn’t stop me from hitting the lights and climbing into bed. Or from spending the rest of the night making sure we both forgot.

What is this? Some kind of power trip for you? Is your dick really that small?"  Quincy grinned. "You tell me?"  Don't look at his dick. Don't look at his dick. Don't look at his⁠—  SHIT.

Jen made a face. “Quincy, not like that. Did he ‘touch’ you?” I get it. “No, not like that.” I don’t know why I didn’t say he push himself against me. I know Jen had seen that.

That sensation I’d had at The Eloise before we’d left Montana hit me again. Those roots kept tugging. I’d thought they had something to do with Montana, with my growing connection to Quincy. But it had always been her.