Remainder Of Her Quotes

She understood him. He could not forgive her,-but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjest resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impuse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed.

The tears that kept Buttercup company the remainder of the day were not at all like those that had blinded her into the tree trunk. Those were noisy and hot; they pulsed. These were silent and steady and all they did was remind her that she wasn’t good enough. She was seventeen, and every male she’d ever known had crumbled at her feet and it meant nothing. The one time it really mattered, she wasn’t good enough.

10th October 1877 I am in love! Her name is Drusilla MacAvoy. 15th October 1877 Too hasty by far! The MacAvoy woman was not for me. I am planning to kill myself, and if the remainder of these pages are blank anyone who comes across this diary will know I succeeded.

A mortal had woven it, a man who, having caught sight of the Seelie queen, had spent the remainder of his short life weaving depictions of her. He had died of starvation, raw, red fingers staining the final tapestry.

I turned to the guard. “Keep her here, Rodrick. Unless she comes up with a plan to destroy the remainder of the enemy. In which case you’re to let her do it.

I used to think Romeo and Juliet was the greatest love story ever written. But now that I’m middle-aged, I know better. Oh, Romeo certainly thinks he loves his Juliet. Driven by hormones, he unquestionably lusts for her. But if he loves her, it’s a shallow love. You want proof?” Cagney didn’t wait for Dr. Victor to say yay or nay. “Soon after meeting her for the first time, he realizes he forgot to ask her for her name. Can true love be founded upon such shallow acquaintance? I don’t think so. And at the end, when he thinks she’s dead, he finds no comfort in living out the remainder of his life within the paradigm of his love, at least keeping alive the memory of what they had briefly shared, even if it was no more than illusion, or more accurately, hormonal. “Those of us watching events unfold from the darkness know she merely lies in slumber. But does he seek the reason for her life-like appearance? No. Instead he accuses Death of amorousness, convinced that the ‘lean abhorred monster’ endeavors to keep Juliet in her present state, her cheeks flushed, so that she might cater to his own dissolute desires. But does Romeo hold her in his arms one last time and feel the warmth of her blood still coursing through her veins? Does he pinch her to see if she might awaken? Hold a mirror to her nose to see if her breath fogs it? Once, twice, three times a ‘no.’” Cagney sighed, listened to the leather creak as he shifted his weight in his chair. “No,” he repeated. “His alleged love is so superficial and selfish that he seeks to escape the pain of loss by taking his own life. That’s not love, but obsessive infatuation. Had they wed—Juliet bearing many children, bonding, growing together, the masks of the star-struck teens they once were long ago cast away, basking in the comforting campfire of a love born of a lifetime together, not devoured by the raging forest fire of youth that consumes everything and leaves behind nothing—and she died of natural causes, would Romeo have been so moved to take his own life, or would he have grieved properly, for her loss and not just his own?

Yes; he had done it. She was in the carriage, and felt that he had placed her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she owed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest. She was very much affected by the view of his disposition towards her, which all these things made apparent. This little circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before. She understood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of some former sentiment, it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed.

If you won 600 million dollars in the lottery, would you go out the next day and break into cars to steal the change from the cup holders? That’s what sleeping around is like when you’ve already found a woman who will pledge her life and her entire being to you for the remainder of her existence. You tell me that you are in an “open marriage.” I will probably be lambasted for “judging” you for it, but, sorry Professor, an “open marriage” makes about as much sense as a plane without wings or a boat that doesn’t float. Marriages, by definition, are supposed to be closed. Actually, I’m getting rather tired of people like you trying to hijack the institution, strip it of its beauty and purpose, and convert it into some shallow little thing that suits your vices.

What are you doing?" she asked. Grimacing, he considered returning his mouth to hers and kissing her until she forgot the question and his strange behavior, but he had to know the truth. Dammit, he had to know. "Amelia told me that her toes curl when Houston kisses her. I was just trying to see if your toes curl when I kiss you." She turned a lovely shade of rose and rolled her shoulders toward her chin. "My whole body curls when you kiss me." "Your whole body?" She nodded quickly."Every inch." "Well, hell," he said as he settled his mouth greedily over hers with plans to keep her body tightly curled for the remainder of the night. -Dallas and Dee

She’s having a party, you know. This coming week.” He took a sip of wine. “I know. I received an invitation this morning before you arrived. According to her flowing prose, I am to be the guest of honor.” He shuddered. Miranda couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, my mother is quite taken with you now that you’re assisting us financially. I’m sure she’ll fawn over you all evening.” He downed the remainder of his wine in one swig. “Dear God, now I wish I hadn’t accepted the invitation.” She giggled at his twisted, pained expression. “Oh, of course you must come. Drink the wine, appreciate the orchestra. After all, you’re paying for it.” Ethan’s expression went from a playfully pained one to a truly pained one for a brief instant. His frown drew down and he looked at her evenly. “No, Miranda. I believe it is you who are paying,” he said softly.

From what I picked up during the remainder of the evening, Campbell Ames had a reputation for pulling "stunts like this". It wasn't entirely clear what constituted as a stunt, though I did gather that borrowing cars that didn't belong to her and wearing white after Labor Day were both in Campbell's repertoire.

Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. ''Do you prefer reading to cards?'' said he; ''that is rather singular.'' ''I prefer a great many things to cards, Mr. Hurst,'' said Elisabeth; ''Not the least of which is the sensation of a newly sharpened blade as it punctures the round belly of a man.'' Mr. Hurst was silent for the remainder of the evening.

I hope she accidentally steps on Lego pieces for the remainder of her life. There

And so began the remainder of her life.

10th October 1877 I am in love! Her name is Drusilla MacAvoy. 15th October 1877 Too hasty by far! The MacAvoy woman was not for me. I am planning to kill myself, and if the remainder of these pages are blank anyone who comes across this diary will know I succeeded.

But just the same, she dared not allow her mind to look up, for she sensed that the tattered images of her dreams were still hung high on the masts of her consciousness like the ragged remainders of sails flapping after a storm.

Unsettled by the sudden appearance of Captain Quire within her court, Gloriana resolved to forego all frivolous entertainments and shun the more unnecessary pleasures. Yet, the queen reasoned, this surely did not apply to healthful exercise, such as riding in the royal park. Nor could she refuse to spend the remainder of the afternoon in quiet seclusion, lying face down upon a cushioned bench in her private dressing room while gentle Lady Mary rubbed all the soreness from her muscles. Such occupations were safe, and harmless. It was only afterwards, when she was sleeping deeply, that Captain Quire came to her in a dream.

It seems right now that all I’ve ever done in my life is making my way here to you.’ I could see that Rosie could not place the line from The Bridges of Madison County that had produced such a powerful emotional reaction on the plane. She looked confused. ‘Don, what are you…what have you done to yourself?’ ‘I’ve made some changes.’ ‘Big changes.’ ‘Whatever behavioural modifications you require from me are a trivial price to pay for having you as my partner.’ Rosie made a downwards movement with her hand, which I could not interpret. Then she looked around the room and I followed her eyes. Everyone was watching. Nick had stopped partway to our table. I realised that in my intensity I had raised my voice. I didn’t care. ‘You are the world’s most perfect woman. All other women are irrelevant. Permanently. No Botox or implants will be required. ‘I need a minute to think,’ she said. I automatically started the timer on my watch. Suddenly Rosie started laughing. I looked at her, understandably puzzled at this outburst in the middle of a critical life decision. ‘The watch,’ she said. ‘I say “I need a minute” and you start timing. Don is not dead. 'Don, you don’t feel love, do you?’ said Rosie. ‘You can’t really love me.’ ‘Gene diagnosed love.’ I knew now that he had been wrong. I had watched thirteen romantic movies and felt nothing. That was not strictly true. I had felt suspense, curiosity and amusement. But I had not for one moment felt engaged in the love between the protagonists. I had cried no tears for Meg Ryan or Meryl Streep or Deborah Kerr or Vivien Leigh or Julia Roberts. I could not lie about so important a matter. ‘According to your definition, no.’ Rosie looked extremely unhappy. The evening had turned into a disaster. 'I thought my behaviour would make you happy, and instead it’s made you sad.’ ‘I’m upset because you can’t love me. Okay?’ This was worse! She wanted me to love her. And I was incapable. Gene and Claudia offered me a lift home, but I did not want to continue the conversation. I started walking, then accelerated to a jog. It made sense to get home before it rained. It also made sense to exercise hard and put the restaurant behind me as quickly as possible. The new shoes were workable, but the coat and tie were uncomfortable even on a cold night. I pulled off the jacket, the item that had made me temporarily acceptable in a world to which I did not belong, and threw it in a rubbish bin. The tie followed. On an impulse I retrieved the Daphne from the jacket and carried it in my hand for the remainder of the journey. There was rain in the air and my face was wet as I reached the safety of my apartment.

After Keeli has poured half the bottle down her throat and the remainder of it in her face, she stands up and looks at Kia.

she’s grinning, her eyes bright with the remainder of the world.

Katrina hated to see the widows in black. They struck her as relics of their own making, frozen in permanent deference to reckless or foolish or simply unfortunate men who were nonetheless dead and sealed away in the earth forever. Husbands never wore black. Husbands were never confined to that kind of passive declaration, were never compelled to sulk across the world for the remainder of their lives, walking signposts of mourning. Husbands were permitted rage, permitted wrath, permitted to avenge their loss by marching out and inflecting on others the very same carnage once inflicted on them. It seemed to Karina further proof that wartime was the only time the world became as simple and carnivorously liberating as it must exist at all times in men's minds. Some of the women she met never used their own names again - she knew them only as Widow This or Widow That - but she'd never met a Widower Anything.

As they call last orders, he’ll walk over to a girl he’s no doubt slept with before, pour half his pint over his own head and the remainder over hers, and with a twinkle in his eye say, “Looks like you’ve pulled again, doesn’t it?

You deserve it. You are a jewel among women.” Her brow wrinkled. “What? I thought I was being romantic.” “Yes, but … I don’t like to be praised in ways that deprecate the remainder of my sex. The world has countless jewel-worthy women. I’m not the only one.

What about me?” Karigan asked. “Hmm?” “What part do I play?” “You have already done more than your share,” he said. “You will rest here with the day’s other wounded and the remainder of Marshal Martel’s troops. Should we fail . . . well, I can depend on you to move these people out of harm’s way.” “No,” Karigan said. The king raised a brow. “No?” Karigan shoved the blanket off and raised herself to her feet. “I’m going with you. King or not, you can’t stop me. My father is being held in the throne room.” “You are wounded and exhausted,” Zachary said. “I don’t want you to slow us down.” “You have a broken arm,” Karigan retorted. “Who will be slowing who?” The king’s eyebrows shot up, and his mouth was quirked in a half smile he couldn’t quite hide. It was as if he wanted to laugh, but he knew better than to do so. “I see,” he said. Horse Marshal Martel appeared at the king’s side, his face impassive. “I told you, my lord, we should have left her while she was asleep.” “I should have listened more closely,” he said.

She didn’t know why arguing this point had become so important to her. If he wanted to live out the remainder of his life bitter and alone, she supposed he had that right. But his smugness made her so prickly all over. And he wasn’t merely insulting love and romance. He was insulting her friends and acquaintances. Her own hard work. The innermost yearnings of her heart. This wasn’t an academic argument. It was personal. If she didn’t defend the idea of lasting happiness, how could she hold out any hope for her own?

Dear Jessa, I’ve started this letter so many times and I’ve never been able to finish it. So here goes again . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry that Riley is dead. I’m sorry for ignoring your emails and for not being there for you. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish it had been me that died and not Riley. If I could go back in time and change everything I would. I’m sorry I left without a word. There’s no excuse for my behaviour but please know that it had nothing to do with you. I was a mess. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone for months. And I felt too guilty and didn’t know how to tell you the truth about what happened. I couldn’t bear the thought of you knowing. I got all your emails but I didn’t read them until last week. I couldn’t face it and I guess that makes me the biggest coward you’ll ever meet. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never replied. You needed me and I wasn’t there for you. I don’t even know how to ask your forgiveness because I don’t deserve it. I’m just glad you’re doing better. I’m better too. I’ve started seeing a therapist – twice a week – you’d like her. She reminds me of Didi. I never thought I’d be the kind of guy who needed therapy, but they made it a condition of me keeping my job. She’s helped me a lot with getting the panic attacks under control. Working in a room the size of a janitor’s closet helps too – there aren’t too many surprises, only the occasional rogue paperclip. I asked for the posting. I have to thank your dad ironically. The demotion worked out. Kind of funny that I totally get where your father was coming from all those years. Looks like I’ll be spending the remainder of my marine career behind a desk, but I’m OK with that. I don’t know what else to say, Jessa. My therapist says I should just write down whatever comes into my head. So here goes. Here’s what’s in my head . . . I miss you. I love you. Even though I long ago gave up the right to any sort of claim over you, I can’t stop loving you. I won’t ever stop. You’re in my blood. You’re the only thing that got me through this, Jessa. Because even during the bad times, the worst times, the times I’d wake up in a cold sweat, my heart thumping, the times I’d think the only way out was by killing myself and just having it all go away, I’d think of you and it would pull me back out of whatever dark place I’d fallen into. You’re my light, Jessa. My north star. You asked me once to come back to you and I told you I always would. I’m working on it. It might take me a little while, and I know I have no right to ask you to wait for me after everything I’ve done, but I’m going to anyway because the truth is I don’t know how to live without you. I’ve tried and I can’t do it. So please, I’m asking you to wait for me. I’m going to come back to you. I promise. And I’m going to make things right. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll never stop trying for the rest of my life to make things right between us. I love you. Always. Kit

Either way would give her a shot at covering their most pressing expenses until Malcolm Dyer was found and the remainder of their money returned. “Please, God,” she thought as she dialed the first number. “Please let them catch him soon. And please don’t make these women too difficult to deal with.

You know what your mum might be?' 'You're not really asking, are you? This is rhetorical, isn't it?' 'A real life desperate housewife. Maybe your mum's hooking and she -' "What are you, drunk? There's a five-year-old in the back seat. And, PS, you're not helping. All she said is that she's at the station. Not in jail. Now, I don't want to talk anymore about it. Mark and I spend the remainder of the car trip in silence. Emma, on the other hand, takes it upon herself to sing every verse of It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp. Next chance I get I'm gonna confiscate her copy of Hustle and Flow and change her computer password from GEELOVE to MONOBROW. - Cat

Vivi and Heather take them out for bubble tea. There are no actual bubbles. Instead, he is served toothsome balls soaked in a sweet, milky tea. Vivi orders grass jelly, and Heather gets a lavender drink that is the colour of the flowers and just as fragrant. Cardan is fascinated and insists on having a sip of each. Then he eats a bite of the half-dozen types of dumplings they order- mushroom, cabbage and pork, cilantro and beef, hot-oil chicken dumplings that numb his tongue, then creamy custard to cool it, along with sweet red bean that sticks to his teeth. Heather glares at Cardan as though he bit the head off a sprite in the middle of a banquet. 'You can't eat some of a dumpling and put it back,' Oak insists. 'That's revolting.' Cardan considers villainy takes many forms, and he is good at all of them. Jude stabs the remainder of the bean bun with a single chopstick, popping it into her mouth and chewing with obvious satisfaction. 'Gooh,' she gets out when she notices the others looking at her. Vivi laughs and orders more dumplings.

Our dia continued. 'When I was twenty-one years old, my niang told me that I was to marry a nice girl aged eighteen. I told her, "I don't want to marry anyone, I don't know how to be a husband." She replied, "All you have to do is love her. She will teach you the rest about life." Little did I know then, but by fate I had married a rare jewel, the most precious jewel I could ever wish for. I treasured and loved her from the time I lifted her veil. I still love her today and will love her for the remainder of my humble life.

So we could, in theory, look at the remains of an individual and, from the isotopic signatures in the otic capsule and first molar, discover where in the world their mother was living when she was pregnant with them and the nature of her diet. We could then analyse the remainder of the adult teeth to establish where the deceased person had grown up, and then the rest of their bones to determine where they had lived for the past fifteen years or so. Finally, we could use their hair and nails to locate where they spent the last years or months of their life.

Katherine Johnson’s passion for her work was as strong during the remainder of her thirty-three-year career at Langley as it was the first day she was drafted into the Flight Research Division. “I loved every single day of it,” she says. “There wasn’t one day when I didn’t wake up excited to go to work.” She considers her work on the lunar rendezvous, prescribing the precise time at which the lunar lander needed to leave the Moon’s surface in order to coincide and dock with the orbiting command service module, to be her greatest contribution to the space program.

She understood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed.

I don’t have a single callus. Even if I decided to leave title and pride behind, I lack any useful skills. I’m like a milk cow slapped on the backside and turned out of the barn to make her way in the forest. A chicken, returned to the wilds to fend for myself.” “I don’t think chicken’s have ever been wild,” Hadrian said. “Exactly.” Albert paused to stare at the remainder of the salt pork strip. “Your friend is right. This is just prolonging the inevitable. It’s a waste. Here.” He held out the meat. “Keep it,” Hadrian said, tilting his head at Royce. “I’m supposed to be learning a lesson.” “Oh shut up, the both of you. I have more.” Royce pulled another strip of pork from his vest and handed it to Hadrian. “So that’s my miserable story,” Albert said. “How about you two?” He looked at Hadrian. “I’m guessing you’re his apprentice?” Hadrian laughed. “No. We’re…business partners.” “What line?” “Procurement,” Royce said. “What kind?” “Any kind,” Royce answered. Albert stared at them for a moment, then his eyes widened. “You are thieves.” “He is.” Hadrian pointed to Royce. “I’m new to this.” “Really? What did you used to do?” Hadrian thought a moment. “Kill people.

I was having trouble making sense of all that Rosie was saying, doubtless due to the effects of the alcohol and her perfume. However, she had given me an opportunity to keep the conversation on safe ground. The inheritance of common genetically influenced traits such as eye colour is more complex than is generally understood, and I was confident that I could speak on the topic for long enough to occupy the remainder of our journey. But I realised that this was a defensive action and impolite to Rosie who had risked considerable embarrassment and damage to her relationship with Stefan for my benefit.

How ‘bout some coffee?” Jake said as he hurried over to the coffee pot on the stove and filled a mug with the remainder of the steaming brew. When he got to the table with it, however, he stopped and looked helplessly from Lucinda to Elizabeth, obviously not certain who ought properly to be served first. “Coffee,” Lucinda informed him dampeningly when he took a step toward her, “is a heathen brew, unfit for civilized people. I prefer tea.” “I’ll have coffee,” Elizabeth said hastily. Jake flashed her a grateful smile, put the mug before her, then returned to the stove. Rather than look at Ian, Elizabeth stared, as if fascinated, at Jake Wiley’s back while she sipped her coffee.

The remainder of my estate, including twenty-two percent of Barrington Shipping, as well as the Manor House—” Mr. Siddons couldn’t resist a glance in the direction of Lady Virginia Fenwick, who was sitting on the edge of her seat—“is to be left to my beloved … daughters Emma and Grace, to dispose of as they see fit, with the exception of my Siamese cat, Cleopatra, who I leave to Lady Virginia Fenwick, because they have so much in common. They are both beautiful, well-groomed, vain, cunning, manipulative predators, who assume that everyone else was put on earth to serve them, including my besotted son, who I can only pray will break from the spell she has cast on him before it is too late.

This is a story about a tiger named Mohini that was in captivity in a zoo, who was rescued from an animal sanctuary. Mohini had been confined to a 10-by-10-foot cage with a concrete floor for 5 or 10 years. They finally released her into this big pasture: With excitement and anticipation, they released Mohini into her new and expensive environment, but it was too late. The tiger immediately sought refuge in a corner of the compound, where she lived for the remainder of her life. She paced and paced in that corner until an area 10-by-10 feet was worn bare of grass. . . . Perhaps the biggest tragedy in our lives is that freedom is possible, yet we can pass our years trapped in the same old patterns.

Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her, and quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage. Yes; he had done it. She was in the carriage, and felt that he had placed her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she owed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest. She was very much affected by the view of his disposition towards her, which all these things made apparent. This little circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before. She understood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed.

Mohini was a regal white tiger who lived for many years at the Washington, D.C. National Zoo. For most of those years her home was in the old lion house—a typical twelve-by-twelve-foot cage with iron bars and a cement floor. Mohini spent her days pacing restlessly back and forth in her cramped quarters. Eventually, biologists and staff worked together to create a natural habitat for her. Covering several acres, it had hills, trees, a pond and a variety of vegetation. With excitement and anticipation they released Mohini into her new and expansive environment. But it was too late. The tiger immediately sought refuge in a corner of the compound, where she lived for the remainder of her life. Mohini paced and paced in that corner until an area twelve by twelve feet was worn bare of grass.

Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?" Mrs. Bennet clenched both her fists. "Yes, or I will never see her again!" she sobbed. "An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth." Mr. Bennet tsk-tsked. "From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do." Lizzy shared a warm smile with her dad. She double-tapped her chest, he double-tapped his, and they did their super secret Favorite Daughter-Daddy handshake. Mrs. Bennet, at the sight of it, broke into sobs anew, and Mr. Collins quietly disappeared down the road, muttering that he would be spending the remainder of his visit at Lucas Lodge, if anybody gave a shit. Which emphatically they did not.

The pressure is on. They've teased me all week, because I've avoided anything that requires ordering. I've made excuses (I'm allergic to beef," "Nothing tastes better than bread," Ravioli is overrated"), but I can't avoid it forever.Monsieur Boutin is working the counter again. I grab a tray and take a deep breath. "Bonjour, uh...soup? Sopa? S'il vous plait?" "Hello" and "please." I've learned the polite words first, in hopes that the French will forgive me for butchering the remainder of their beautiful language. I point to the vat of orangey-red soup. Butternut squash, I think. The smell is extraordinary, like sage and autumn. It's early September, and the weather is still warm. When does fall come to Paris? "Ah! soupe.I mean,oui. Oui!" My cheeks burn. "And,um, the uh-chicken-salad-green-bean thingy?" Monsieur Boutin laughs. It's a jolly, bowl-full-of-jelly, Santa Claus laugh. "Chicken and haricots verts, oui. You know,you may speek Ingleesh to me. I understand eet vairy well." My blush deepends. Of course he'd speak English in an American school. And I've been living on stupid pears and baquettes for five days. He hands me a bowl of soup and a small plate of chicken salad, and my stomach rumbles at the sight of hot food. "Merci," I say. "De rien.You're welcome. And I 'ope you don't skeep meals to avoid me anymore!" He places his hand on his chest, as if brokenhearted. I smile and shake my head no. I can do this. I can do this. I can- "NOW THAT WASN'T SO TERRIBLE, WAS IT, ANNA?" St. Clair hollers from the other side of the cafeteria. I spin around and give him the finger down low, hoping Monsieur Boutin can't see. St. Clair responds by grinning and giving me the British version, the V-sign with his first two fingers. Monsieur Boutin tuts behind me with good nature. I pay for my meal and take the seat next to St. Clair. "Thanks. I forgot how to flip off the English. I'll use the correct hand gesture next time." "My pleasure. Always happy to educate." He's wearing the same clothing as yesterday, jeans and a ratty T-shirt with Napolean's silhouette on it.When I asked him about it,he said Napolean was his hero. "Not because he was a decent bloke, mind you.He was an arse. But he was a short arse,like meself." I wonder if he slept at Ellie's. That's probably why he hasn't changed his clothes. He rides the metro to her college every night, and they hang out there. Rashmi and Mer have been worked up, like maybe Ellie thinks she's too good for them now. "You know,Anna," Rashmi says, "most Parisians understand English. You don't have to be so shy." Yeah.Thanks for pointing that out now.

Yearning for some form of reconciliation, for a new, fresh beginning to their relationship, she looked forward to her father’s driving her to college—a time when she would be alone with him for several hours. But the long-anticipated trip proved a disaster: her father behaved true to form by grousing at length about the ugly, garbage-littered creek by the side of the road. She, on the other hand, saw no litter whatsoever in the beautiful, rustic, unspoiled stream. She could find no way to respond and eventually, lapsing into silence, they spent the remainder of the trip looking away from each other. Later, she made the same trip alone and was astounded to note that there were two streams—one on each side of the road. “This time I was the driver,” she said sadly, “and the stream I saw through my window on the driver’s side was just as ugly and polluted as my father had described it.” But by the time she had learned to look out her father’s window, it was too late—her father was dead and buried. That story has remained with me, and on many occasions I have reminded myself and my students, “Look out the other’s window. Try to see the world as your patient sees it.” The woman who told me this story died a short time later of breast cancer, and I regret that I cannot tell her how useful her story has been over the years, to me, my students, and many patients.

  Such Pleasure took the Serpent to behold   This Flourie Plat, the sweet recess of EVE   Thus earlie, thus alone; her Heav'nly forme   Angelic, but more soft, and Feminine,   Her graceful Innocence, her every Aire   Of gesture or lest action overawd   His Malice, and with rapine sweet bereav'd   His fierceness of the fierce intent it brought:   That space the Evil one abstracted stood   From his own evil, and for the time remaind   Stupidly good, of enmitie disarm'd,   Of guile, of hate, of envie, of revenge;   But the hot Hell that alwayes in him burnes,   Though in mid Heav'n, soon ended his delight,   And tortures him now more, the more he sees   Of pleasure not for him ordain'd: then soon   Fierce hate he recollects, and all his thoughts   Of mischief, gratulating, thus excites.

Grey wasn’t quite drunk, but he was far from sober when Rose entered his study later that evening. His heart stuttered at the sight of her, but his head…his head couldn’t take any more. “I’ve been drinking,” he warned her, just in case his sprawled posture and missing cravat wasn’t enough indication. “And I refuse to dance this ridiculous dance with you any more tonight.” “May I have a drink with you?” He glanced up. She stood beside the sofa where he half sat, half lay. She looked like someone who’d just lost her best friend or puppy or something equally as tragic. He sat up. “Of course.” Never mind that it wasn’t proper. Who the hell cared? They were well past proper. He was simply trying to hold on to sane. She poured herself a substantial glass of sherry and took a seat on the chair nearest him. He sat quietly, nursing the remainder of whiskey in his glass while she took several sips from her own. “Do you remember my come-out ball?” she asked after a few minutes. “Of course.” And he did. “I remember telling you that you looked lovely in pink.” She smiled. “You danced the first dance with me so I wouldn’t have to dance with Papa.” “You were afraid the other girls would laugh at you if you danced with your father.” “They didn’t laugh at me for dancing with you.” “No.” He chuckled at took a drink. “I wager they didn’t.” Rose sighed. “They thought you were so scandalous, you know. All night I had girls coming up to me wanting to know about you. I felt very important.” He saluted her with his glass. “Glad to be of service.” “I think I fell a little bit in love with you that night.” Grey choked on a mouthful of whiskey. Coughing, he cursed himself for being stupid enough to relax his guard with her. “Rose…” She held up her hand. “I’m not telling you this to make you uncomfortable, Grey. I wanted to tell you that you were a knight to me that evening-a knight on a big white horse. I didn’t know much about your reputation, all I knew was that you made me feel grown-up.

The doctor gave him a look of sympathy. “We won’t have a choice. If left untreated, both mother and child could die. The only cure for eclampsia is delivery of the baby. We’re doing tests to determine the lung maturity of the baby. At thirty-four weeks’ gestation, the child has a very good chance of survival without complications.” Ryan dug a hand into his hair and closed his eyes. He’d done this to her. She should have been cherished and pampered during her entire pregnancy. She should have been waited on hand and foot. Instead she’d been forced to work a physically demanding job under unimaginable stress. And once he’d brought her back, she’d been subjected to scorn and hostility and endless emotional distress. Was it any wonder she wanted to wash her hands of him and his family? “Will…will Kelly be all right? Will she recover from this?” He didn’t realize he held his breath until his chest began to burn. He let it out slowly and forced himself to relax his hands. “She’s gravely ill. Her blood pressure is extremely high. She could seize again or suffer a stroke. Neither is good for her or the baby. We’re doing everything we can to bring her blood pressure down and we’re monitoring the baby for signs of stress. We’re prepared to take the baby if the condition of either mother or child deteriorates. It’s important she remain calm and not be stressed in any way. Even if we’re able to bring down her blood pressure and put off the delivery until closer to her due date, she’ll be on strict bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy.” “I understand,” Ryan said quietly. “Can I see her now?” “You can go in but she must remain calm. Don’t do or say anything to upset her.” Ryan nodded and turned to walk the few steps to Kelly’s room. He paused at the door, afraid to go in. What if his mere presence upset her? His hand rested on the handle and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the surface. He closed his eyes as grief and regret—so much regret—swamped him.

at Mike and then back at me. “I really don’t’ want to talk about this, but I have to say something. You know, my ex, Vanessa? Well, she would’ve never been okay with ordering food from here. She’d always say it was beneath her to eat anywhere that didn’t have a Michelin star. Said it was ‘uncouth’” “Well…that’s not very nice,” I responded. The warmth I’d been feeling from Tristan’s praise faded a little at the mention of his ex-fiancée, though I tried to keep my voice steady. He’d only mentioned her casually, and it wasn’t to praise her, so that had to be a good sign, right? At least, he was feeling comfortable enough to open up about his past relationships. It wasn’t as if the twit had bulldozed herself into his house like Brad did. “She wasn’t a very nice person now that I really think about it,” Tristan replied. “Mike warned me about her so many times. I really should’ve listened to him.” “Why didn’t you?” I asked before I could stop myself. “Coz he’s a bloody wanker!” Mike’s voice chimed in from the back seat. I didn’t realize he could hear our low voices, and the look on Tristan’s face said he’d probably rather talk about something else, but he continued on. He blew out long breath and continued. “Lots of reasons, none of which sound very good to me now. My parents liked her, though now I know a few more things… I think my father only liked the idea of her. My mum probably faked it for me.” I didn’t know what to say to that. I mean, I knew Tristan’s dad didn’t like me. The man called me a freakin’ strumpet for Christ’s sake! But I didn’t even know if his mom knew anything about me or if I even existed for that matter. I was a little worried maybe Tristan was trying to hide things, well, maybe trying to hide me. “I hope, maybe one day in the future… she’ll actually like me and not have to …to fake it.” My words tumbled out and seemed to plunge the car into an awkward silence. The only sound I could hear was my own breathing. The silence stretched past the point of comfort and just as I was about to take it all back, Tristan finally spoke. “My mum will adore you.” The remainder of the drive was made in silence and soon enough, we found ourselves at the door of Mike’s flat. Even Tristan seemed to need a moment to brush off the seriousness

Eat, woman,” he bellowed, leaning over her, prepared to force the remainder of her meal into her opened mouth. “I would,” she said in a strained voice, “But there is a giant attached to my chin. Perhaps if he would be so gracious as to remove the cured pork from my pack, I would share it with him.” Rautu’s eyes blazed in senseless joy. He released his companion and hastened toward her effects, rummaging through them with great anticipation. He found a small brown parchment parcel and assumed that this was the source of his happiness. He sniffed the outside of the paper and hummed in delight for the exquisite scent. He tore open the barrier between him and his prize and he was compelled to smile when remarking the numerous slices of meat in his hands. He began eating them immediately, leaving no time between one slice and the next to savour that which he had longed to again taste. The superior fare of Frewyn had been the chief of his consolation during the war, and if he was to remain on the islands with all its splendor, all its comforting familiarity, all its temperate climate, and all its horrendous food, he would relish this last ember of bliss before being made to suffer a diet of steamed grains again. “I did say share,” the commander called out. “I am responsible for securing your life,” he replied with a full mouth and without turning around. “And I thanked you accordingly.” The commander’s remonstrations were unanswered, and she scoffed in aversion as she watched the voracious beast consume nearly all the provisions she had been saving for the return journey. “I know you shall not be satisfied until you have all the tribute in the world, but that pork does belong to me, Rau.” “You are not permitted to have meat while taking our medicines,” he said, dismissively. She peered at him in circumspection. “I don’t recall you mentioning that stipulation before. I find it convenient that you should care to do so now.” The giant paused, his cheeks filled with pork. “And?” he said, shoving another slice into his mouth. “And,” she laughed, “You’re going to allow me to starve on your inedible bread while you skulk off with something that was meant for both of us?” “Perhaps.” “Savior, indeed,” the commander fleered. “You have saved me from one means of death only to plunge me into another.

The advertisement that Apple aired during the 1984 Superbowl has become the stuff of legend. In it the company presented itself as a force of liberation, which would counter the Orwellian surveillance state. In lock-step, listless workers – evidently without a will of their own – march into a vast hall and listen to Big Brother’s fanatical declamations on the telescreen. Then the ad shows a woman rushing into the assembly hall, the Thought Police in hot pursuit. Bearing a sledgehammer before her heaving breast, she dashes forward. Full of resolve, she runs straight up to Big Brother and throws the sledgehammer at the telescreen with all the force she can muster; it explodes in a dazzling burst of light. The assembled workers promptly awaken from their torpor. A voice declares: ‘On January 24th, Apple Computer will introduce Macintosh. And you’ll see why 1984 won’t be like 1984.’ But despite Apple’s message, 1984 did not signal the end of the surveillance state so much as the inception of a new kind of control society – one whose operations surpass the Orwellian state by leaps and bounds. Now, communication and control have become one, without remainder. Now, everyone is his or her own panopticon. 9.

He held the dipper out to Jake. When Jake reached for it, Tick-Tock pulled it back. "First, cully, tell me what you know about dipolar computers and transitive circuits," he said coldly. "What..." Jake looked toward the ventilator grille, but the golden eyes were still gone. He was beginning to think he had imagined them after all. He shifted his gaze back to the Tick-Tock Man, understanding one thing clearly: he wasn't going to get any water. He had been stupid to even dream he might. "What are dipolar computers?" The Tick-Tock Man's face contorted with rage; he threw the remainder of the watter into Jake's bruised, puffy face. "DON'T YOU PLAY IT LIGHT WITH ME!" he shrieked. He stripped off the Seiko watch and shook it in front of Jake. "WHEN I ASKED YOU IF THIS RAN ON A DIPOLAR CIRCUIT, YOU SAID IT DIDN'T! SO DON'T TELL ME YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TLAKING ABOUT WHEN YOU ALREADY MADE IT CLEAR THAT YOU DO!" "But...but..." Jake couldn't go on. His head was whirling with fear and confusion. He was aware, in some far-off fashion, that he was licking as much water as he could off his lips. "THERE'S A THOUSAND OF THOSE EVER-FUCKING DIPOLAR COMPUTERS RIGHT UNDER THE EVER-FUCKING CITY, MAYBE A HUNDRED THOUSAND, AND THE ONLY ONE THAT STILL WORKS DON'T DO A THING EXCEPT PLAY WATCH ME AND RUN THOSE DRUMS! I WANT THOSE COMPUTERS! I WANT THEM WORKING FOR ME!" The Tick-Tock Man bolted forward on his throne, seized Jake, shook him back and forth, and then threw him to the floor. Jake struck one of the lamps, knocking it over, and the bulb blew with a hollow coughing sound. Tilly gave a little shriek and stepped backward, her eyes wide and frightened. Copperhead and Brandon looked at each other uneasily. Tick-Tock leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and screamed into Jake's face: "I WANT THEM AND I MEAN TO HAVE THEM!" Silence fell in the room, broken only by the soft whoosh of warm air pouring from the ventilators. Then the twisted rage on the Tick-Tock Man's face disappeared so suddenly it might never have existed at all. It was replaced by another charming smile. He leaned further forward and helped Jake to his feet. "Sorry. I get thinking about the potential of this place and sometimes I get carried away. Please accept my apology, cully." He picked up the overturned dipper and threw it at Tilly. "Fill this up, you useless bitch! What's the matter with you?" He turned his attention back to Jake, still smiling his TV game-show host smile. "All right; you've had your little joke and I've had mine. Now tell me everything you know about dipolar computers and transitive circuits. Then you can have a drink.

He recognized her deft hand and eye for detail immediately. He flipped through the pages, past vignettes of the dairymaid and her vague-featured gentleman engaged in a courtship of sorts: a kiss on the hand, a whisper in the ear. By the book’s midpoint, the chit’s voluminous petticoats were up around her ears, and the illustrations comprised a sequence of quite similar poses in varying locales. Not just the dairy, but a carriage, the larder, in a hayloft lit with candles and strewn with…were those rose petals? I’ll be damned. Gray was fast divining the true source of the French painting master’s mythic exploits. More unsettling by far, however, as he perused the book, he noted a subtle alteration in the gentleman lover’s features. With each successive illustration, the hero appeared taller, broader in the shoulders, and his hair went from a cropped style to collar length in the space of two pages. The more pages Gray turned, the more he recognized himself. It was unmistakable. She’d used him as the model for these bawdy illustrations. She’d sketched him in secret; not once, but many times. And here he’d nearly gone mad with envy over each scrap of foolscap she’d inked for once crewman or another. His emotions underwent a dizzying progression-from surprised, to flattered, to (with the benefit of one especially inventive situation in an orchard) undeniably aroused. But as he lingered over a nude study of this amalgam of the real him and some picaresque fantasy, he began to feel something else entirely. He felt used. She’d rendered his form with astonishing accuracy, given that it must have been drawn before she’d any opportunity to actually see him unclothed. Not that she’d achieved an exact likeness. Her virgin’s imagination was rather generous in certain aspects and somewhat stinting in others, he noted with a bitter sort of amusement. But she’d laid him bare in these pages, without his knowledge or consent. God, she’d even drawn his scars. All in service of some adolescent erotic fantasy. And now he began to grow angry. He had been handling the leaves of the book with his fingertips only, anxious he might smudge or rip the pages. Now he abandoned all caution and flipped roughly through the remainder of the volume. Until he came to the end, and his hand froze. There they were, the two of them. He and she fully clothed and unengaged in any physical intimacies-yet intimate, in a way he had never known. Never dreamed. Sitting beneath a willow tree, his head in her lap. One of her hands lay twined with his, atop his chest. The other rested on his brow. The sky soared vast and expansive above, gauzy clouds spinning into forever. The hot fist of desire that had gripped his loins loosened, moved upward through his torso, churning the contents of his gut along the way. Then it clutched at his heart and squeezed until it hurt. Somehow, this illustration was the most dismaying of all. So naïve, so ridiculous. at least the bawdy situations were plausible, if sometimes physically improbable. This was utterly impossible. To her, he'd never been more than a fantasy. It occurred to Gray that more secrets might be packed within these trunks. If he sorted through her belongings, he might find the answers to all his questions. Perhaps answers to questions he'd never thought to ask. In spite of this, he let the lid of the trunk clap shut and fastened the strap with shaking fingers. He'd suffered as many of her fantasies as he could bear for one day. It was time to acquaint her with reality.

For the remainder of the meal, Ruairi sat and listened while the woman laughed at Fagan's jesting, cast smiles at Fagan, and asked him questions about Ruairi's home. Clearly Ruairi couldn't answer, so his only option was to sit mute. Perhaps this wasn't one of his most brilliant ideas. Mistress Denny must think him daft. He took another drink from his tankard and tried to think of all the ways to kill the captain of his guard. Her gentle laugh tinkled through the air. Her nearness was overpowering, but it had been quite a long time since he had shared his bed with a woman. When visions suddenly appeared of the sultry temptress lying beneath him, a cynical inner voice cut through his thoughts. He hated when his cock ruled his mind. Ruari brought his tankard to his lips and took another big gulp, quickly realizing he needed something much stronger than what was in his cup.

For the remainder of the meal, Ruairi sat and listened while the woman laughed at Fagan's jesting, cast smiles at Fagan, and asked him questions about Ruairi's home. Clearly Ruairi couldn't answer, so his only option was to sit mute. Perhaps this wasn't one of his most brilliant ideas. Mistress Denny must think him daft. He took another drink from his tankard and tried to think of all the ways to kill the captain of his guard. Her gentle laugh tinkled through the air. Her nearness was overpowering, but it had been quite a long time since he had shared his bed with a woman. When visions suddenly appeared of the sultry temptress lying beneath him, a cynical inner voice cut through his thoughts. He hated when his cock ruled his mind. Ruairi brought his tankard to his lips and took another big gulp, quickly realizing he needed something much stronger than what was in his cup.

The tears that kept Buttercup company the remainder of the day were not at all like those that had blinded her into the tree trunk. Those were noisy and hot; they pulsed. These were silent and steady and all they did was remind her that she wasn’t good enough.

For her part, my mother was probably more alike him than he suspected, the chief difference being that showing her husband affection was among her duties. Though she might harshly reprimand a servant or child, in his presence she was always soft-spoken and demure. She deferred to his opinions, flattered his vanities, and endured his rebukes with meekness. Love was a choice she made, and then made again daily for the remainder of her life. From her I learnt that a woman should not expect her happiness to come from the man himself, but from those acts of devotion she showed to him.

She sees it all now, how the remainder of her life will go. The details, of course, are beyond her, but she sees the timbre of it. Oscillations of desire and regret broken only by rare grace notes of contentment: one here, one there. – Last Year’s River, Allen Morris Jones

The rest of the evening passed agreeably: the crew had their games on the main deck, resigning themselves to Sirs and dice now that dancing was out, those who would go ashore to enjoy the dining halls and tea houses went after their matches were lost, and those who remained either took themselves off to an early rest or remained with the musicians, to sing out the remainder of the evening by way of a few round songs, calling out verses in melodic dissonance, singing the history of Good Marrie the Whore and though there were “Ten hands in her purse, there was still room for one more!”,

Miss Leighton." He heard her crossing the room, the brush of air against his face as she knelt down to his level, taking the hand he held out to her in silent apology.  "Yes, Lord Charles?" "I am sorry for embarrassing you so.  Forgive me." "Oh, there's nothing to forgive," she said, squeezing his hand and then releasing it.  "I know you're not angry with my family, but with your circumstances —" "On the contrary, Miss Leighton, I am furious with your family.  I do not know if I can suffer them for the remainder of my stay here." "I don't mind bringing you back to Boston, then, if you want to go —" "Damn it, girl, don't fuel my fury with such remarks!"  Charles dug his fists into his eyes and then, in a calmer, quieter voice, murmured, "I need you to do me a kindness." "Certainly." "Can you read and write?" "Yes." "Providence smiles on me at last.  I need someone to pen three letters for me.  Will you do that?" "Oh, yes.  We can do them right now, if you like.  Supper won't be ready for a while, and I'm just tidying up a bit, that's all . . ."  He heard her jump to her feet.  "I'd be happy to write your letters for you, Captain de Montforte, even post them for you in the morning —" "No.  You have more than enough to do.  Let your sisters post them." "I don't mind, really —" "I mind.  Let them do it." "Well . . . all right.

Perfectly content to live out the remainder of his days simply being her friend, he would be forever grateful if some day she might love him in return.

To Dave’s amazement, Alex shoved the entire cake into her mouth. Her cheeks were so stuffed full of cake that her head was about twice as wide as it usually was. Then, with a large gulp, she swallowed the cake down whole. She opened her mouth to show everyone that the cake was gone. “We have a winner!” The cowman hosting the competition shouted. Everyone in the inn let out an enormous cheer. The elderly cowman dropped the remainder of his cake on the table, admitting defeat. “Well done, dear girl!” Porkins said to Alex.

Uggggh …” groaned Alex, clutching her stomach. She had one more cake left in her pile, but her opponent had one more cake in his pile as well, and he’d already started to eat it. Alex’s eyes were rolling into the back of her head, and her skin was even paler than usual. “Alex, you can give up if you want to,” said Dave. “Don’t make yourself sick.” “Yes, we won’t think any less of you, dear girl,” said Porkins. “I’ll think less of you,” said Carl. “Carl!” said Dave. “What?” said Carl, shrugging. “I’m only being honest.” The elderly cowman was halfway through his last cake, and Alex hadn’t even started hers. It’s all over, thought Dave. There’s no way that Alex can catch up. Alex looked like she was going to pass out at any moment, but then, finding strength from somewhere, she picked up her final cake and opened her mouth wide. FLOOOONCH!!!!!! To Dave’s amazement, Alex shoved the entire cake into her mouth. Her cheeks were so stuffed full of cake that her head was about twice as wide as it usually was. Then, with a large gulp, she swallowed the cake down whole. She opened her mouth to show everyone that the cake was gone. “We have a winner!” The cowman hosting the competition shouted. Everyone in the inn let out an enormous cheer. The elderly cowman dropped the remainder of his cake on the table, admitting defeat. “Well done, dear girl!” Porkins said to Alex. “Yeah, well done, Alex,” said Carl. “If ever I need someone to eat a big pile of cakes, you’ll be the first person I ask.” “I still think this whole competition was completely foolish,” said Spidroth. “Nevertheless, Alex, I congratulate you on your victory. Like a true warrior, you bested all your opponents, showing them no mercy.” “Uggghh …” groaned Alex. Then she fainted, her face hitting the table. “Alex!” yelled Dave, rushing over to her. “Is anyone here a healer?” “I am,” said a cowman with grey fur, rushing over. “What’s wrong with her, Doctor?” asked Porkins. “My diagnosis is that she’s eaten too many cakes,” said the cowman healer, lifting Alex’s head. “I could have told you that,” said Carl, rolling his eyes. “What should we do with her?” asked Dave. “I think a good night’s rest should do the trick,” said the healer. “Are you sure you’re a healer?” said Carl. “None of this advice seems very professional.

Out of the Works No Good Comes From The simple equation you found in my notebook frightened you but I could have explained it: After all bright colors of sunset and leaves are added together lovers are subtracted children multiplied, are divided, taken away. The remainder is small enough To stay in this room forever Gray-shadowing restless Trapped on a gray grass plain, I did not plan to tell you Better to lose colors gradually First the blue of the eyes Then the red of blood Its salt taste fading… Wherever you’re heading tonight You think you’re leaving me An the equation of this gray room. Hold her close Pray These are lies I am telling you. …You’ll drive on Putting distance and time between us- The snow in the high Sierras The dawn along the Pacific Dreaming you’ve left this narrow room. But tonight I have traced all escape routes With my finger across the tv weather map. Your ocean dawn is only the gray light In the corner of this room Your mountain snowstorm Flies against the glass screen Until we both are buried.

I spent the remainder of the visit staring stupidly at the TV, answering Grandma’s questions in single syllables and making faces at her cooking.

For the remainder of her days, my grandmother lay in bed, staring past the window into space. It was if a part of her mind had died before her body had time to give up.

Mab raised a hand as I began to speak and said, her voice tired and uninflected, “Yes. You defy me. Obviously. You always do. In the interests of efficiency, let us assume you have uttered some mystifying reference to mortal popular nonsense, I have glared at you and reminded you of the power I hold over you, you have confirmed that you continue to understand the circumstances that require me to tolerate your insouciance, and we have both agreed to continue this ridiculous dance in the future, presumably for the remainder of time.

Her pace was slow, and after a moment, she glimpsed him. Iain straightened in the water, unable to stop his smile. Well, now. Wasn’t this an interesting dilemma? “You have me at a disadvantage, a chara.” He took a few steps closer, unable to resist teasing her. Now the water was at his waistline, and Rose put up her hands. “Stop,” she commanded. “I didn’t realize you were here. There’s no need to . . . leave the water.” Her face held a lovely blush, and he rather wanted to see what she would do now. “I’ll just go now.” Oh, no. He wasn’t about to let this opportunity escape. “I had just finished swimming,” he said. “If you’d like to take your turn, the water is all yours. Though, I must say, it’s a bit cold now.” “I wasn’t planning to swim.” He took another step closer, and this time, the water grazed his hip bones. Rose scrunched her eyes shut. “No, you needn’t come any farther.” He rather wondered if she would sneak a glimpse if he were to leave the lake. He took another step forward, baring a bit more of himself. When she didn’t respond, he guessed that she was indeed hiding her eyes. “I do need my clothes,” he pointed out. “And they are on the shore at the moment. I’ll go and fetch them.” This time, he strode out of the water, fully bared. God almighty, it was cold. He watched Rose closely as he continued toward his clothes, but she kept both hands covering her eyes. He couldn’t be certain, but it almost looked as if there was a slight space between her fingers. Was is possible that she was staring at him? “Are you enjoying the view, a chara?” he asked as he reached for his smallclothes and trousers. “I am not looking at you.” “So you say.” He smiled to himself as he dressed. When he was half-clothed, he returned toward her horse. Aye, he could have finished putting on his shirt and the remainder of his clothing, but he wanted to see her reaction, to tease her a little more. “You can look now.” She did, and promptly shut her eyes again. “You are not dressed, Lord Ashton.” “All the important bits are. And it’s not as if you haven’t seen me in this state before.” She let out a groan. “Really, now. Must you behave in such a villainous manner?” “I would only be a villain if I pulled you from that horse and threw you in the lake.” He had no intention of doing so, but the slight gasp she emitted made it clear that she wasn’t quite so certain. “Don’t you dare.” He approached the horse while her eyes were still closed and reached up, pulling her down to stand before him. Rose squealed, and tried to fight him, but he held her steady. “Now, a chara, I wouldn’t do such a thing to you.” “You took me off the horse.” “So I did. You were wanting to walk, were you not?” He kept her standing, knowing full well that his body was still wet from the lake. “Your skin is freezing,” she pointed out. “The water was too cold.” “It’s England. It will never get warm,” he felt compelled to remind her. And he was accustomed to swimming in frigid water, for it wasn’t at all warm in Ireland, either. But the longer he held her waist, the more she had an effect upon him. Her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted. Her reddish-brown hair was caught up in a pretty green bonnet, and she wore a riding habit that revealed the dip in her waist and the curve of her hips. Iain kept his arms around her, enjoying the temptation before him. There was no denying that Lady Rose was a stunningly beautiful woman, one he wanted to touch. Not yours, he warned himself. But she wasn’t fighting his hands upon her waist. And although she gave a slight shiver, she didn’t seem frightened of him. “I’m not going to harm you, Lady Rose,” he reminded her. “You can open your eyes.” After a moment, she did. “I cannot believe you were swimming naked in the lake. Did you think no one would come along?” He shrugged. “I don’t suppose I cared if anyone did.

Driggs silently handed her the remainder of his own pizza, then watched with amusement as she wrestled with how to humbly accept it. Eventually she gave up on decorum and shoved the whole thing into her mouth in about two bites, a messy decision that she instantly regretted. “You’ve got sauce in your nostril,” Driggs informed her. Lex sighed. “Of course I do.” She grabbed a nearby leaf and tended to the situation. “Better?” “Radiant

Hunter crouched beside the fire, a cup of coffee cradled in his palms, his gaze fixed on the shifting flames. He could see his yellow-hair from the corner of his eye and knew every time she moved, every time she looked at him. Somehow she had managed to stay covered with the fur while she pulled on his shirt and her ruffled breeches. His brother, Warrior, squatted next to him and began tossing chips of bark onto the coals, watching them ignite. “The tosi tivo must be very poor lovers.” Hunter glanced up, more than a little bewildered by his brother’s observation. Warrior was like that, though, the thoughts in his heart darting here and there like autumn leaves caught up in the wind. “You don’t agree?” Warrior pressed. Warrior’s voice and the musical cadence of the Comanche language fell sweetly on Hunter’s ears. Talking tosi tivo talk to the yellow-hair had left a dirty taste on his tongue. “The tosi tivo are very poor at everything.” Warrior glanced toward the yellow-hair, squinting as a trail of smoke got in his face. “She still hides beneath the buffalo robe. Your shirt and her ruffles are not enough.” Hunter searched his brother’s dark eyes. “I think the tosi tivo teach their women such foolishness because they are afraid.” “Hm. And what would they be afraid of?” Warrior grinned. “A woman who isn’t well loved will seek solace elsewhere.” Hunter huffed at that idea. “With as many children as their women bear, how can you think they need solace? The trouble with the tosi tivo is that they have no honor. They will call a man friend, then borrow his woman when his back is turned. The many clothes make the wife borrowing a little more tricky, eh?” A thoughtful frown settled on Warrior’s forehead. He dumped the remainder of the wood chips he had collected onto the fire. The flames hissed hungrily and flared brighter. “This is the truth? And what of the females? Don’t they spurn the men who try to shame them?” “The females have no honor, either.” Brushing his hands clean on his leggings, Warrior shot a worried look at the white woman. “You must teach her, eh? If you go down in battle and I have to take her into my lodge circle, I want to know her children are yours.” “She will learn. I will teach her honor if I kill her doing it.

A loud clunk resounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see her husband. Instead she looked straight into Red Buffalo’s black eyes. For an instant her heart stopped beating. She stared at him. He stared back. His arms were laden with firewood. One piece lay at his feet. Very slowly he hunkered down and began unloading the rest. At last Loretta found her voice. “Get out of here!” “I bring you wood,” he replied softly in English. Even Loretta knew warriors didn’t demean themselves by gathering firewood; it was woman’s work. Red Buffalo was humbling himself, making her a peace offering. She didn’t care. “I don’t want your filthy wood. Take it and leave.” He continued his task as if she hadn’t spoken. Rage bubbled up Loretta’s throat. She leaped to her feet and strode toward him. “I said get out of here! Take your damned wood with you!” Just as she reached him, Red Buffalo finished emptying his arms and rose. He was a good head shorter than Hunter, but he dwarfed Loretta. She fell back, startled, wondering if he could smell her fear. Lifting her chin, she cut him dead with her eyes. He inclined his head in a polite nod and turned to walk away. “I said take your wood with you!” she called after him. “I don’t want it!” Picking up a log, she chucked it at him. It landed on end and bounced, hitting Red Buffalo’s calf. He stopped and turned, his face expressionless as he watched her throw the remainder of the firewood in his direction. Saying nothing, he began to pick up the firewood. To Loretta’s dismay, he returned to her firepit and began unloading the logs there in a neat pile. From the corner of her eye, she could see neighbors gathering to find out what all the commotion was about. Heat scalded her cheeks. She couldn’t believe Red Buffalo was humiliating himself like this. “Don’t,” she said raggedly. “Go away, Red Buffalo! Go away!” He tipped his head back. Tears glistened on his scarred cheeks. “Hunter has cut me from his heart.” “Good! You’re an animal!” Red Buffalo winced as if she had struck him. “He has forbidden me to enter his lodge until you take my hand in friendship.” “Never!” Appalled, Loretta retreated a step. “Never, do you hear me?” Red Buffalo slowly rose, brushing his palms clean on his breeches. “He is my brother--my only brother.” “You expect me to feel sorry for you? How dare you come near me? How dare--” Her voice broke, and she spun away, running inside the lodge. Heedless of Amy, who was sitting up on her pallet, Loretta threw herself onto the bed. Knotting her fists, she stifled her sobs against the fur. Hatred coursed through her, hot, ugly, and venomous, making her shake. Take his hand in friendship? Never, not as long as she lived.

Grab your phone from the truck before you go in,” he said. “Why?” “So I can send you suggestive and encouraging texts when you take too long with the party planning of course.” “Of course,” she said. “I really might have to revamp my whole not-thinking plan and put you in charge.” He lifted his hands. “I’m willing and able,” he said, then sketched a bow. When he stood, he slid his phone out and handed it to her. “To put in your number,” he said when she looked confused. “Oh, right.” She did as he asked, then that mischievous light sparkled in her eyes as she took a moment and typed in a little more before turning it off and handing it back to him. “What was that last bit?” “Just helping to get that encouraging conversation going.” She left him standing there, looking down at his phone then at her retreating back as she headed back around to the parking lot and her truck. He pocketed the phone without reading the message, thinking he should probably be alone when that happened. And possibly naked. “Yes, much better when we don’t think.” He planned to do his best to keep them both not thinking for at least the remainder of that day and, if he was lucky, all of the night, too.

Books and bookcases cropping up in stuff that I've written means that they have to be reproduced on stage or on film. This isn't as straightforward as it might seem. A designer will either present you with shelves lined with gilt-tooled library sets, the sort of clubland books one can rent by the yard as decor, or he or she will send out for some junk books from the nearest second-hand bookshop and think that those will do. Another short cut is to order in a cargo of remaindered books so that you end up with a shelf so garish and lacking of character it bears about as much of a relationship to literature as a caravan site does to architecture. A bookshelf is as particular to its owner as are his or her clothes; a personality is stamped on a library just as a shoe is shaped to the foot.

This I need to be told?” she’d snapped. As if, sitting in this kitchen where she felt the disapproving presence of his dead mother, she could forget where he’d grown up. Cole was the youngest of six children, with five sisters who’d traveled no farther than the bottom of the hollow, where Dad Widener had deeded each daughter an acre on which to build a house when she married, meanwhile saving back the remainder of the sixty-acre farm for his only son, Cole. The family cemetery was up behind the orchard. The Wideners’ destiny was to occupy this same plot of land for their lives and eternity, evidently. To them the word town meant Egg Fork, a nearby hamlet of a few thousand souls, nine churches, and a Kroger’s. Whereas Lusa was a dire outsider from the other side of the mountains, from Lexington—a place in the preposterous distance. And now she was marooned behind five sisters-in-law who flanked her gravel right-of-way to the mailbox.

She loved him. He loved her. They both got married, not to each other. :) Down on one knee WILL U MARRY ME? I don't love you and i don't think i ever will held out my ring, will u marry me? I've read my vows to someone else took an oath to keep her safe Wake up next to me for the rest of my mornings when i'm thru with dreams of her and me will u hold my hand? when my flesh is ill n keep me warm against the harsh winter breeze she once held my heart n i don't recall taking it back will u marry me? i'm truly sorry, i am bt all i can offer is a heartless, lifeless version of me will u spend the remainder of our lives together, have children, build a house shut'em people's mouth make them believe, they can all be Juliets n Romeos but there'll not certainly be a love like ours. So will you marry me???

Portland, Maine was the site of one of the northernmost skirmishes of the Civil War! Called the Battle of Portland Harbor, it happened in the waters off Portland harbor involving two ships flying the Confederate flag. On June 24, 1863, having been attacked by these ships, the Union Revenue Cutter Cushing was abandoned by her twenty-four crewmen. Captain Charles Reed a Confederate Navy Lieutenant Reed and the Captain of the Confederate raider, the CSS Tacony, ordered the Cushing torched, causing its munitions to explode. Late on June 26, 1863, Reed and an armed party came ashore dressed as fishermen and raided the city. Knowing that there was no chance of escaping, Captain Reed and his raiding party surrendered to Mayor McLellan and were held as prisoners of war at Fort Preble in South Portland. Because public sentiments were hostile against Reed and his men, they were taken to Boston and held at Fort Warren for the remainder of the Civil War.

Like most children of her era, she’d been taught to believe that the genome—the sequence of base pairs expressed in the chromosomes in every nucleus of the body—said everything there was to say about the genetic destiny of an organism. A small minority of those DNA sequences had clearly defined functions. The remainder seemed to do nothing, and so were dismissed as “junk DNA.” But that picture had changed during the first part of the twenty-first century, as more sophisticated analysis had revealed that much of that so-called junk actually performed important “roles in the functioning of cells by regulating the expression of genes. Even simple organisms, it turned out, possessed many genes that were suppressed, or silenced altogether, by such mechanisms. The central promise of genomics—that by knowing an organism’s genome, scientists could know the organism—had fallen far short as it had become obvious that the phenotype (the actual creature that met the biologist’s eye, with all of its observable traits and behaviors) was a function not only of its genotype (its DNA sequences) but also of countless nanodecisions being made from moment to moment within the organism’s cells by the regulatory mechanisms that determined which genes to express and which to silence. Those regulatory mechanisms were of several types, and many were unfathomably complex. Had it not been for the sudden intervention of the Agent, the biologists of Old Earth would have devoted at least the “remaining decades of the century to cataloging these mechanisms and understanding their effects—a then-new science called epigenetics. Instead of which, on Cleft, in the hands of Eve Moira and the generations of biologists she reared, it became a tool. (...) Thousands of years later, epigenetics was sufficiently well understood to be programmed into the DNA of some of the newly created species that would be let loose on the surface of New Earth. And one of the planks in the Get It Done platform was to use epigenetics for all it was worth. So rather than trying to sequence and breed a new subspecies of coyote that was optimized for, and that would breed true in, a particular environment, the GID approach was to produce a race of canines that would, over the course of only a few generations, become coyotes or wolves or dogs—or something that didn’t fit into any of those categories—depending on what happened to work best. They would all start with a similar genetic code, but different parts of it would end up being expressed or suppressed depending on circumstances. And no particular effort would be made by humans to choose and plan those outcomes. They would seed New Earth and see what happened. If an ecosystem failed to “take” in a particular area, they “they would just try something else. In the decades since such species had been seeded onto New Earth, this had been going on all the time. Epigenetic transformation had been rampant. Still, when it led to results that humans saw, and happened to find surprising, it was known as “going epi.

Now I am standing, yet I feel so woozy and woosy. My belly cramps in knots, worse than when I am on my period. I stumble to the bathroom bumping into everything down the hallway, the bathroom is by my mom and dad’s bedroom, I am holding my mouth. My legs trembling over what I have done, certainly, I’m going to throw up or shut myself, or both… I didn’t even think about closing the door when I got there or turn on the light… I barfed in the scarp can while side-saddling one leg on either of the toilets, as it runs coming out of me from both ends at the same time. I reached for the sink after I thought it was all over and brushed my teeth and then shower to wash off. My shower is way too hot and there’s thick steam everywhere, fogging up the mirror, drops are budding upon the tiles. I hear voices in the hallway, but the water rushing down on me, and it feels wonderful, it’s falling so hard on my head and body I can’t make them out, yet I'm sure if the mother says nasty things to me, dad. I stop the water flow overhead. I hear dad looking in at me saying: ‘Get out of the shower, and get going, your friend is out there waiting for you. I said- What? Oh my god, close the door dad, and don’t look at me. Yet he did not remember to close the door all the way. I step out of the shower stall dripping wet, I blot the remainder off with a towel, and there is no time for makeup or doing my hair. Jenny, early I thought… it has to be a miracle. I feel there is like an electric current running through my body, coming deep inside me when I look up and see my little sis looking up at me, saying- ‘Are you okay?’ Her fingers brushed against my lower back skin, as I was staring at her without expression on my face. My eyes widen in the phenomenon, yet I hide no idea why it was in such utter shock to me. She is always sneaking up on me. Yet you would think I saw a ghost by the look within my unconscious feeling eyes. I look into my hand mirrors, pulling it off the countertop, and- I see that my irises are surrounded by a jade green- a glowing circle of light, let me know that I have made it… the powers at be are letting me have my do-overs. My eye was always green but never like this, they're so alluring now, almost like glowing the light of the other universe above, letting me know that I am echoing the final days of my life.

only way he knew to dull the pain. He was disciplined numerous times before receiving an honorable discharge. After a short stint in Hollywood, Florida, where he drank away the remainder of his military pay, he returned to Ohio to live with his father and stepmother. By now, he drank every day, which caused a stir in the household. His father convinced him that he’d be better off if he moved in with his grandmother. She owned a large house in the Milwaukee area and lived all alone. He could be his own man there and look after his grandmother in her old age. Jeff felt this would be an opportunity for a new start and moved in with his grandma.

Speaking of which, how far out are we from the restaurant?” “Only another five minutes or so,” Stacey told her. “Five minutes? Sweet Jesus, someone hand me that bottle of champagne. I’m not going to survive if I have to wait an entire five minutes.” Without waiting for anyone to actually comply with her request, Alexis reached over, grabbed the neck of the open bottle, and gleefully sipped down the remainder of the sparkling wine. “Nice to know this won’t be different than any of our other girls’ night outs,” Stacey chuckled under her breath.

Sometimes the world didn’t make sense. No parent should ever have to bury their own child. I couldn’t even imagine that kind of pain that raced through her heartbeats on a daily basis. If I could offer up only one set of prayers for the remainder of my life, it would be for the parents who had to say goodbye too early to one of their own.

Now Ahta-hana was weary of wandering, and it seemed to him that he had surely learned enough that he might return home. He dreamed, and afterwards he said to his wives, ‘I know that my mother is dreaming of me. I must go to her.’ All four wives wished to go with him and he consented to their going. But it was as he had feared, their strength and endurance were far less than his, and he felt so much encumbered by them that he thought of leaving them and going on alone. To make this appear more reasonable, he caused a cold rain to fall, until they could scarcely drag their feet through the mud. He went on ahead; but he looked back and saw them still struggling after him. He was ashamed of what he had willed and done, and he knew at last that he truly loved them. For the remainder of the journey he made no more cold rains; rather he learned something of their needs and natures as he had of other life in the world different from himself, and he was no longer impatient with them nor did he think again of leaving them behind.

When she tricked me out of my powers and left the scraps, it was still more than the others. And I decided to use it to tap into the minds of every Night Court citizen she'd captured, and anyone who might know the truth. I made a web between all of them, actively controlling their minds every second of every day, every decade, to forget about Velaris, to forget about Mor, and Amren, and Cassian, and Azriel. Amarantha wanted to know who was close to me- who to kill and torture. But my true court was here, ruling this city and the others. And I used the remainder of my powers to shield them all from sight and sound. I had only enough for one city, one place. I chose the one that had been hidden from history already. I chose, and now must live with the consequences of knowing there were more left outside who suffered. But for those here.... anyone flying or travelling near Velaris would see nothing but barren rock, and if they tried to walk through it, they'd find themselves suddenly deciding otherwise. Sea travel and merchant trading were halted- sailors became farmers, working the earth around Velaris instead. And because my powers were focused on shielding them all, Feyre, I had very little to use against Amarantha. So I decided that to keep her from asking questions about the people who mattered, I would be her whore.' He'd done all of that, had done such horrible things... done everything for his people, his friends. And the only piece of himself that he'd hidden and managed to keep her from tainting, destroying, even if it meant fifty years trapped in a cage of rock....'' Those wings now flared wide. How many knew about those wings outside of Velaris or the Illyrian war-camps? Or had he wiped all memory of them from Prythian long before Amarantha? Rhys released my chin. But as he lowered his hand, i gripped his wrist, feeling the solid strength. 'It's a shame,' I said, the words nearly gobbled up by the sound of the city music. 'That others in Prythian don't know. A shame that you let them think the worst.' He took a step back, his wings beating the air like mighty drums. 'As long as the people who matter most know the truth, I don't care about the rest. Get some sleep.' Then he shot into the sky, and was swallowed by the darkness between the stars.

Once, she’d overheard Jessamine, who had been an expert in herbs, tell a woman how to make a homespun spermicide to prevent pregnancy. Adah had remembered the recipe and followed that advice for the remainder of the marriage, even though her apparent barrenness had angered Lester further

On Feb. 14, 1941, Donna Damerel (then married to swimmer Peter Fick) died suddenly moments after the birth of her third child. She was 29. Helen Mack played Marge for the remainder of that year.

Steep steps, and the sway of her skirt couldn't be contained. Instead of side to side, it flounced front to back, flashing Jake from behind. She cringed. He chuckled, deep and admiring. "Sexy thigh-highs. Those blue bows along the seams do it for me." His compliment sent heat up and between her legs. Her composure slipped. The hoop skirt would be the death of her. She would never wear one again. Sheer will pushed her up the remainder of the stairs. Once on the landing, she struggled to turn and face him. The light overhead flickered and dimmed, needing a bulb replaced. Jake's face was shadowy, but she could make out his expression, equally intense and indulgent. She would have immediately taken to her room, but his gaze detained her. All dark heat and sinful appreciation. His face was hard cut. His mouth curved, wicked by design. Tension stretched between them. Nerves overcame her. She felt inept with this man.

If you see her in the lobby, turn around. If she's in the elevator when the doors open, wait for the next one. If you can see her wherever you are, close your fucking eyes. But I don't want to find you so much as breathing the same air as her again unless you want to spend the remainder of your days in a fucking wheelchair. Got it, Cody?

The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched, waiting. . . . A few people kept checking their watches. . . . “Any second,” Lee Jordan whispered, two seats away from Harry. The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red again. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room gasped. Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm’s length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white. “The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, in a strong, clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.” “No surprises there!” yelled Ron as a storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall. Harry saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber. “Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. “Knew you had it in you!” The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone’s attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames. “The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!” “It’s her, Ron!” Harry shouted as the girl who so resembled a veela got gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. “Oh look, they’re all disappointed,” Hermione said over the noise, nodding toward the remainder of the Beauxbatons party. “Disappointed” was a bit of an understatement, Harry thought. Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms. When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next . . . And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment. “The Hogwarts champion,” he called, “is Cedric Diggory!” “No!” said Ron loudly, but nobody heard him except Harry; the uproar from the next table was too great. Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet,

10th October 1877 I am in love! Her name is Drusilla MacAvoy. 15th October 1877 Too hasty by far! The MacAvoy woman was not for me. I am planning to kill myself, and if the remainder of these pages are blank anyone who comes across this diary will know I succeeded. Rupert Angier (Pg. 166)

The woman who coveted unfulfilling love? We had no medicine for her so we eradicated her entire reality, and torched the remainder of her pieces into ashes.

A middle-aged customer on crutches wandered around reading all the signs out loud while her mother gazed for a while at the shot Kindle before asking me, 'Why did you shoot a calculator?

Mma Ramotswe read the remainder of the letter, which as far as she could make out was meaningless jargon which the attorney had been taught at law school. They were impossible, these people; they had a few years of lectures at the University of Botswanna and they set themselves up as expertes on everything. What did they know of life? All they knew was how to parrot stock phrases of their profession and to continue to be obstinate until somebody, somewhere, paid up. They won by attrition in most cases, but they themselves concluded it was skill. Few of them would survive in her profession, which required tact and perspicacity.

Fifty of the Infantry tanks were at home in a battalion of the Royal Tank Regiment, and the remainder were in training-schools. Never has a great nation been so naked before her foes.

What’s in this bread?” Tatiana asked, breaking off a piece of the black crust and looking inside. “What is this?” It was the start of November. Babushka was on the couch. Mama and Marina had already gone out for the day. Tatiana was procrastinating, trying to make her portion last. She didn’t want to go to the hospital. Dasha leaned over from her chair and shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares? How does it taste?” “Actually, revolting.” “Eat it. What, maybe you’d like some white bread instead?” Tatiana picked at a little piece of something in the bread, poked it with her fingers, then put it on her tongue. “Dash, oh my God, you know what it is?” “I don’t care.” “It’s sawdust.” Dasha paused in her own chewing, but only for a second. “Sawdust?” “Yes, and this here?” Tatiana pointed to a brown fleck between her fingers. “That’s cardboard. We’re eating paper. Three hundred grams a day, and they’re giving us paper.” Finishing every last crumb of her piece and looking hungrily at the one Tatiana was kneading between her fingers, Dasha said, “We’re lucky to have that. Can I open the can of tomatoes?” “No. We have only two left. Besides, Mama and Marina are not here. You know if we open it, we’ll eat it all.” “That’s the idea.” “We can’t. We’ll open it tonight for dinner.” “What kind of dinner is that going to be? Tomatoes?” “If you didn’t eat all your cardboard in the morning, you’d have some left for dinner.” “I can’t help it.” “I know,” said Tatiana, putting the rest of the bread in her mouth and chewing it with her eyes closed. “Listen,” she said when she had swallowed hard, “I’ve got some crackers left. Want to have some? Just three each?” “Yes.” The girls glanced at Babushka, who was sleeping. They ate seven each. Only small remainders were left of what used to be whole pieces of toasted bread. Broken remainders with crumbs on the bottom.

Being accused of microaggression can be a harrowing experience. Manhattan Institute Fellow Heather Mac Donald relates in City Journal how an incident got out of hand at the University of California, Los Angeles, in 2013. Professor Emeritus Val Rust taught a dissertation preparation seminar in which arguments often erupted among students, such as over which victim ideologies deserved precedence. In one such discussion, white feminists were criticized for making "testimonial-style" claims of oppression to which Chicana feminists felt they were not entitled. In another, arguments over the political implications of word capitalization got out of hand. In a paper he returned to a student, Rust had changed the capitalization of "indigenous" to lowercase as called for in the Chicago Manual Style. The student felt this showed disrespect for her point of view. During the heated discussion that followed, Professor Rust leaned over and touched an agitated student's arm in a manner, Rust claims, that was meant to reassure and calm him down. It ignited a firestorm instead. The student, Kenjus Watston, jerked his arm away from Rust as if highly offended. Later, he and other "students of color", accompanied by reporters and photographers from UCLA's campus newspaper, made a surprise visit to Rust's classroom and confronted him with a "collective statement of Resistance by Graduate Students of Color". Then the college administration got involved. Dean Marcelo Suarez-Orozco sent out an e-mail citing "a series of troubling racial climate incidents" on campus, "most recently associated with [Rust's class]". Administrative justice was swift. Professor Rust was forced to teach the remainder of his class with three other professors, signaling that he was no longer trusted to teach "students of color". When Rust tried to smooth things over with another student who had criticized him for not apologizing to Watson, he reached out and touched him in a gesture of reconciliation. Again it backfired. That student filed criminal charges against Rust, who was suspended for the remainder of the academic year. As if to punctuate the students' victory and seal the professor's humiliation, UCLA appointed Watson as a "student researcher" to the committee investigating the incident. Watson turned the publicity from these events into a career, going on to codirect the Intergroup Dialogue Program at Occidental College in Los Angeles. As for the committee report, it recommended that UCLA create a new associate dean for equity and enhance the faculty's diversity training program. It was a total victory for the few students who had acted like bullies and the humiliating end of a career for a highly respected professor. It happened because the university could not appear to be unsympathetic to students who were, in the administration's worldview, merely following the university's official policies of diversity and multiculturalism.

I shut my eyes and listened to the remainder of “I’ll Be” by Edwin McCain in my car before preparing to get out. My dad used to sing that to my mom when they thought I wasn’t looking. He’d pull her close in the kitchen and dance with her slowly as he softly sang each word in her ear. My dad was sweet like that, and I remember thinking I wanted a guy just like him. A rugged-looking softy who would take the time to dance with his wife for no reason at all. He looked at her like she was the world. And I’d vowed to never settle for less.

Man, she was kissin’ you like it was the last kiss of her life. If she kisses like that, I wonder how she--” “Shut up, Enrique.” “She’s gonna ruin you, Alejo,” Enrique continues, calling me by my Spanish nickname. “Look at you already, spendin’ time in jail last night and cuttin’ school to get your motorcycle back. Granted, she’s got a buena torta, but is she worth it?” “I gottta get back to work,” I say, my mind whirling with Enrique’s words. And as I work under a Blazer for the remainder of the evening, all I want to do is make out with my mamacita again and again. Yes, she’s definitely worth it.

They circulated through the room, greeting people they knew, which was most of the crowd. Several of Taylor’s mother’s friends came up and complimented her on her dress, asked how Kitty Jackson was faring these days. A few deigned to ask about Win, her father. She answered both with equal insouciance—Kitty was fine, she’d met a Swiss banker skiing in Gstaad over the winter and had elected to stay in Europe for the remainder of the spring. Win was in a minimum-security prison in West Virginia, a guest of the federal government.

Karras dipped one finger in the cocaine, rubbed some on Donna’s clit and along the silk pink of her lips. Donna followed, touching cocaine to the head of his cock, running the remainder down the underside of his shaft and massaging his balls. Karras’s sex felt frozen and hot at once. He cupped a hand under her ass, lifted her and brought her forward, slipped himself inside her. Engulfed in her warmth, he let out a long, relieved breath. “Bury it,” she said.

An invisible gown of guilt adorned Leah as she faced the remainder of the week and completely avoided Spectrum and her laboratory as she mulled over her seduction by the various fictitious characters she'd met inside the artificial worlds she'd created and the distraction and disruption they had actually caused to her very real life

I may not be a miller's daughter, but you are not so different from the Folk as you think, Your Highness." I lifted her wineglass and dashed the remainder against her face, spilling it across her mouth and into her eyes.

She was beautiful, and she was so torn in so many different directions. They’d seen each other’s souls, and maybe once you’d seen a soul, it belonged to you in some profound way that could be felt but not explained. He knew her. He understood every facet. She was imperfect, but so was he. She was fearful and extraordinarily brave. She was scarred inside, but she was his. It had been true then, and it was true now. It would be his greatest truth for the remainder of his days, and he would not deny it again.