Scoop Series Quotes

I scoop the soil over the bird, smoothing it flat before standing. “I hope someone is this kind to us when it’s over.

The Pension Dressler stood in a side street and had, at first glance, the air rather of a farm than of a hotel. Frau Dressler's pig, tethered by one hind trotter to the jamb of the front door, roamed the yard and disputed the kitchen scraps with the poultry. He was a prodigious beast. Frau Dressler's guests prodded him appreciatively on the way to the dining-room, speculating on how soon he would be ripe for killing. The milch-goat was allowed a narrower radius; those who kept strictly to the causeway were safe, but she never reconciled herself to this limitation and, day in, day out, essayed a series of meteoric onslaughts on the passers-by, ending, at the end of her rope, with a jerk which would have been death to an animal of any other species. One day the rope would break; she knew it, and so did Frau Dressler's guests.

It was an eerie feeling, which is why Violet and Sunny were surprised when Klaus broke the silence by laughing suddenly. "What are you snickering at?" Violet asked. "I just realized something," Klaus said. "We're going to the administrative building without an appointment. We'll have to eat our meals without silverware." "There's nothing funny about that!" Violet said. "What if they serve oatmeal for breakfast? We'll have to scoop it up with our hands." "Oot," Sunny said, which meant "Trust me, it's not that difficult," and at that the Baudelaire sisters joined their brother in laughter. It was not funny, of course, that Nero enforced such terrible punishments, but the idea of eating oatmeal with their hands gave all three siblings the giggles. "Or fried eggs!" Violet said. "What if they serve runny fried eggs?" "Or pancakes, covered in syrup!" Klaus said. "Soup!" Sunny shrieked, and they all broke out in laughter again.

Mmm,” Bree licked the ice cream scoop and tossed it into the sink. “Let’s just say that for the sake of the baby, Alessandro and I have reached a sort of…an...agreement, I guess.” “Does that mean I can’t punch him anymore? ‘Cause that was fun.” “Yes. It does. Sorry.” “So are you two…” “No. Hell no. Not after him using Rebecca Malford as a scratching post,” Bree grumbled, her stomach clenching tight at that little reminder. “He’s what? Alessandro and that...viper?” “That’s right.” Bree clenched her teeth. “Rebecca and Alessandro? Oh my God. Mental bleach! I need mental bleach!” Meggie rubbed her temples. “Yeah, keep doing that for another week and you might be where I am right about now.” “Oh, he’s a smooth one, that’s for sure,” Meggie said with a sudden smile. “What’s with that look?” “You’re so jealous,” Bree snorted, turning away from her and taking a seat opposite of Will. “That’s ridiculous.” “And so true.

Mmm.” Sebastian moaned. “It’s so delicious.” He laughed then. “It’s not the Poisonous Desert; it’s the Oreo Desert.” He scooped up handfuls of dirt and stones and funneled it into his mouth. He licked his palms, his teeth grinding against rock. “Did the plant scramble his brains?” Firen asked, her lips twitching just a smidgen. “The plant’s poison makes you delusional,” Gabriella informed as Egnatious and Firen yanked Sebastian to his feet. “He’ll probably be a bit Looneyville for a while.

His Sons, the fairest of her Daughters Eve. Under a tuft of shade that on a green Stood whispering soft, by a fresh Fountain side They sat them down, and after no more toil Of thir sweet Gardning labour then suffic’d To recommend coole Zephyr, and made ease More easie, wholsom thirst and appetite More grateful, to thir Supper Fruits they fell, Nectarine Fruits which the compliant boughes Yeilded them, side-long as they sat recline On the soft downie Bank damaskt with flours: The savourie pulp they chew, and in the rinde Still as they thirsted scoop the brimming stream; Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles Wanted, nor youthful dalliance as beseems Fair couple, linkt in happie nuptial League, Alone as they. About them frisking playd All Beasts of th’ Earth, since wilde, and of all chase In Wood or Wilderness, Forrest or Den; Sporting the Lion rampd, and in his paw Dandl’d the Kid; Bears, Tygers, Ounces, Pards Gambold before them, th’ unwieldy Elephant To make them mirth us’d all his might, & wreathd His Lithe Proboscis; close the Serpent sly Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine His breaded train, and of his fatal guile Gave proof unheeded; others on the grass Coucht, and now fild with pasture gazing sat, Or Bedward ruminating: for the Sun Declin’d was hasting now with prone carreer To th’ Ocean Iles, and in th’ ascending Scale Of Heav’n the Starrs that usher Evening rose: When Satan still in gaze, as first he stood, Scarce thus at length faild speech recoverd sad. O Hell! what doe mine eyes with grief behold, Into our room of bliss thus high advanc’t Creatures of other mould, earth-born perhaps, Not

This is painfully obvious at a poker table. Even weak players know, in principle, that seeing through the eyes of opponents is critical. She raised the bet $20? What does that tell me about her thinking—and the cards she has? Each bet is another clue to what your opponent is holding, or wants you to think she is holding, and the only way to piece it together is to imagine yourself in her seat. Good perspective-takers can make a lot of money. So you might suppose that anyone who takes poker seriously would get good at it, quickly, or take up another hobby. And yet they so often don’t. “Here’s a very simple example,” says Annie Duke, an elite professional poker player, winner of the World Series of Poker, and a former PhD-level student of psychology. “Everyone who plays poker knows you can either fold, call, or raise [a bet]. So what will happen is that when a player who isn’t an expert sees another player raise, they automatically assume that that player is strong, as if the size of the bet is somehow correlated at one with the strength of the other person’s hand.” This is a mistake. Duke teaches poker and to get her students to see like dragonflies she walks them through a game situation. A hand is dealt. You like your cards. In the first of several rounds of betting, you wager a certain amount. The other player immediately raises your bet substantially. Now, what do you think the other player has? Duke has taught thousands of students “and universally, they say ‘I think they have a really strong hand.’” So then she asks them to imagine the same situation, except they’re playing against her. The cards are dealt. Their hand is more than strong—it’s unbeatable. Duke makes her bet. Now, what will you do? Will you raise her bet? “And they say to me, ‘Well, no.’” If they raise, Duke may conclude their hand is strong and fold. They don’t want to scare her off. They want Duke to stay in for each of the rounds of betting so they can expand the pot as much as possible before they scoop it up. So they won’t raise. They’ll only call. Duke then walks them through the same hypothetical with a hand that is beatable but still very strong. Will you raise? No. How about a little weaker hand that is still a likely winner? No raise. “They would never raise with any of these really great hands because they don’t want to chase me away.” Then Duke asks them: Why did you assume that an opponent who raises the bet has a strong hand if you would not raise with the same strong hand? “And it’s not until I walk them through the exercise,” Duke says, that people realize they failed to truly look at the table from the perspective of their opponent. If Duke’s students were all vacationing retirees trying poker for the first time, this would only tell us that dilettantes tend to be naive. But “these are people who have played enough poker, and are passionate about the game, and consider themselves good enough, that they’re paying a thousand dollars for a seminar with me,” Duke says. “And they don’t understand this basic concept.”22

Grace rolled up her sleeves and joined the group in the kitchen, where Gladys, Pablo's wife, had worked all day directing many other women who kept food pouring out the front and side door, onto a long series of folding tables, all covered in checkered paper table cloths. While some of the women prepped and cooked, others did nothing but bring food out and set it on the table- Southern food with a Mexican twist, and rivers of it: fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, chicken mole, shrimp and grits, turnip greens, field peas, fried apples, fried calabaza, bread pudding, corn pudding, fried hush puppies, fried burritos, fried okra, buttermilk biscuits, black-eyed peas, butter bean succotash, pecan pie, corn bread, and, of course, apple pie, hot and fresh with sloppy big scoops of local hand-churned ice creams. As the dinner hours approached, Carter grabbed Grace out of the kitchen, and they both joined Sarah, Carter's friend, helping Sarah's father throw up a half-steel-kettle barbecue drum on the side of the house. Mesquite and pecan hardwoods were quickly set ablaze, and Dolly and the quilting ladies descended on the barbecue with a hurricane of food that went right on to the grill, whole chickens and fresh catfish and still-kicking mountain trout alongside locally-style grass-fed burgers all slathered with homemade spicy barbecue sauce. And the Lindseys, the elderly couple who owned the fields adjoining the orchard, pulled up in their pickup and started unloading ears of corn that had been recently cut. The corn was thrown on the kettle drum, too, and in minutes massive plumes of roasting savory-sweet smoke filled the air around the house. It wafted into the orchards, toward the workers who soon began pouring out of the house.

Must I go over this again? I can walk.” No, I couldn’t. “I was an early walker.” I wasn’t. “I’ll give you my mom’s number.” I wouldn’t. “You can call her to confirm.” Good luck. One more attempt, and Jackson gave up. I wouldn’t say he scooped me into his arms; that isn’t exactly how it went. I stumbled when he leaned down. I bumped his forehead with my knee. Then I elbowed him in the head when he lifted me up. Up, however, I was. And soon, too, could be my lunch. “Just relax.” Jackson stretched a kink I’d put in his neck. “Sorry about your head.” I mumbled around the saliva flooding my mouth. He popped it once. “It’s still attached.” “Positive thinker.” I took a deep, calming breath. “I hate those.” The

You know, I've never been a fancier of human women. But I'll admit, that particular specimen is striking. I notice you wasted no time in scooping her up for a little ride. How did she feel in the saddle, eh?

Everything from then on became a series of steps: quietly summoning Ress; telling the young, talented guard to keep his mouth shut and to find whatever healers were closest; wrapping her in his cloak so no one could see the blood on her skin; scooping her up and carrying her to her rooms; barking orders at the healers; and finally pinning her down on the bed as they forced the antidote down her throat until she choked on it. Then the long, long hours spent holding her as she vomited, twisting her hair back, snarling at anyone who entered the room.

Quinn soon followed after he scooped his jaw off the floor and sent out a search party to look for his castrated man parts.

Good. I want you to reach in and scoop it out.

she scoop most of the noodles back into the bowl, then opens the seasoning package with a tear.

The steam was thicker than expected and surprisingly easy to scoop up. Inside her mouth it swelled twice its original size and then burst into a series of delicate favors: savory cream sauce, then toasted cheese, and finally vanilla ice cream with a tinge of hazelnut.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. The conversation moved swiftly to the latest edition of “Have I Got News for You.” “Oh, Mummy, it was hilarious,” laughed William. “They had a photo of Mrs. Parker Bowles and a horse’s head and asked what the difference was. The answer was that there isn’t any!” Diana absolutely exploded with laughter. We talked about which was the hottest photo to get. “Charles and Camilla is still the really big one,” I said, “followed by you and a new man, and now, of course, William with his first girlfriend.” He groaned. So did Diana. Our “big ones” are the most intimate parts of their personal lives. It was a weird moment. I am the enemy, really, but we were getting on well and sort of developing a better understanding of each other as we went along. Lunch was turning out to be basically a series of front-page exclusive stories--none of which I was allowed to publish, although I did joke that “I would save it for my book”--a statement that caused Diana to fix me with a stare, and demand to know if I was carrying a tape recorder. “No,” I replied, truthfully. “Are you?” We both laughed, neither quite knowing what the answer really was. The lunch was one of the most exhilarating, fascinating, and exasperating two hours of my life. I was allowed to ask Diana literally anything I liked, which surprised me, given William’s presence. But he was clearly in the loop on most of her bizarre world and, in particular, the various men who came into it from time to time. The News of the World had, during my editorship, broken the Will Carling, Oliver Hoare, and James Hewitt scoops, so I had a special interest in those. So, unsurprisingly, did Diana. She was still raging about Julia Carling: “She’s milking it for all she’s worth, that woman. Honestly. I haven’t seen Will since June ’95. He’s not the man in black you lot keep going on about. I’m not saying who that is, and you will never guess, but it’s not Will.” William interjected: “I keep a photo of Julia Carling on my dartboard at Eton.” That was torture. That was three fantastic scoops in thirty seconds. Diana urged me to tell William the story of what we did to Hewitt in the Mirror after he spilled the beans in the ghastly Anna Pasternak book. I dutifully recounted how we hired a white horse, dressed a Mirror reporter in full armor, and charged Hewitt’s home to confront him on allegations of treason with regard to his sleeping with the wife of a future king--an offense still punishable by death. Diana exploded again. “It was hysterical. I have never laughed so much.” She clearly had no time for Hewitt, despite her “I adored him” TV confessional.

Feeling quite pleased with myself for enduring the great Gavin Greyson’s cruel and unusual torture, I scoop a huge bite of chocolate and enjoy my fucking just desserts.

Some people might turn to substances for an escape, but I don’t even want to chance it. I’m afraid of what I’ll become, that I’ll be just like them. So, I read. A lot.

One d-day,” Old Gertrude muttered, in an agonizingly slow and leathery voice that suggested she was actually closer to two hundred years old, “there is going to be … a gigantic f-fish … called Brian ….” “Yes?” asked Yam, scribbling down her every word frantically (which was unnecessary, because she left such long pauses in between her words that he could have written them down, climbed to the top of one of the highest jungle trees bordering the village, tamed the fifty or so parrots living in its branches, and then come down again before she even said the next thing). Gertrude’s lips quivered. “It is going to eat ….” “Eat, yes, what’s it going to eat?” cried the Chief. Gertrude’s whole body was shaking from the sheer effort now. Sweat ran down her brow. Her blank face had morphed into a look of such concentration that it could probably be considered a workout. The whole village leaned forward, their breaths held in excitement. “It is going to eat,” Old Gertrude whispered …. “Yes!?” cried the Chief. “THE SUN,” Old Gertrude finished. Steve gawped in disbelief. “A fish is going to eat the sun?” “BRILLIANT!” shouted Yam, hurriedly writing the last words of Old Gertrude’s newest prediction into the book. “SHE’S DONE IT AGAIN!” bellowed the Chief—and with that, the entire village erupted into an enormous cheer—with the exception of Gertrude herself, that was, who had sagged in relief now the sheer effort of verbalizing her ‘prediction’ was over. “HURRAH FOR OLD GERTRUDE!” chorused the village. Chuck clucked crossly, rustling his feathers. “Hmph.” “AND ALL HAIL THE ONE TRUE KING, OF COURSE!” the natives added. Chuck stopped his rustling. “Better.” “Get her back to her hut and put her in bed, Yam,” said the Chief. “She looks like she’s about to fall over.” Yam nodded, then scooped up Old Gertrude and hurried her away, at rather a quicker pace than he’d brought her out at. “So, there you go,” said the Chief, looking pleased. “You’ve witnessed one of Old Gertrude’s amazing predictions. A gigantic fish eating the sun, eh? Madness! I do hope I’m alive to see it!

Pa had sent me out to get an extra pail of air. I’d just about scooped it full and most of the warmth had leaked from my fingers when I saw the thing.

Jiya slid over a large metal container from its place of honor on their counter and scooped cumin from its smaller compartment into the pressure cooker where Andrew had already started soaking the ghee to make khichdi, their morning staple ever since Jiya had taken pity on three starving men.

Smoothie This smoothie combines soluble fiber, resistant starch, electrolytes, healthy fats, and collagen to support regularity and a healthy intestinal lining. You will need: ⅔ cup wild blueberries ½ small frozen banana ½ cup almond milk ½ cup coconut water ¼ cup packed fresh parsley leaves ¼ small avocado, peeled and pitted 1 teaspoon chia seeds 1 teaspoon grated fresh gingerroot 1 scoop collagen protein powder 1 teaspoon lemon

Nuri Halloway was a different sort of nobility. She was the adopted daughter of the Assassin Lord. An orphan on the streets like Cassius, the Assassin Lord had found her at the age of four, scooped her up, and taken her to his home. His daughter not by blood, but by choice. She had been trained as an elite killer right alongside Scarlett. They were taught to move among the shadows with such stealth you didn’t see them unless they wanted to be seen. Her gift of stealth, however, was how she came to be called Death’s Shadow. She stalked every one of her father’s targets and even some of the other assassins’ and thieves’ targets at the Fellowship.