Spitfire Quotes

Ned?' he says, after a while. 'Oi, Ned?' 'What?' 'If someone says to you that the guy they're going out with doesn't have to prove how smart he is, what's your response?' 'That he's dumb.' 'And if he has a sixpack?' 'Dumb jock.' 'Not too intense.' 'Dumb jock with no personality.' 'And they see eye to eye?' Ned pauses. 'With the spitfire from Dili?' 'Same,' Tom corrects. Ned holds up a hand to where Tara would reach him in height. 'Dumb jock with no personality and short-man syndrome.' 'Thanks, Ned.' 'Anytime.

Don't ever let anyone put out your light because they are blinded by it.

In the end, you will not see the physical beauty in others that caught your eye, but the fire that burned within them. This kind of beauty is the bonfire you had to attend.

High Flight Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air.... Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace. Where never lark, or even eagle flew — And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, - Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

John: I'm experiencing an odd sensation. I think it might be patriotism. Spitfire: Steady. Too much of that can damage your health.

I would spar with the boys at school. This guy I had a crush on, we called him Spitfire -- I gave him a bloody nose and lip, so needless to say the romance did not work out!

There's a superstition among falconers that a hawk's ability is inversely proportional to the ferocity of its name. Call a hawk Tiddles and it will be a formidable hunter; call it Spitfire or Slayer and it will probably refuse to fly at all.

Come now, you can move faster than that! Everyone says you were a spitfire on the cliffs this morning." I let him spin me at that. "They do?" "They're saying that you and Sean Kendrick were burning up the cliffs." Tommy spins me again and grins at me. "And when I say you and Sean Kendrick, i mean you and Sean Kendrick. And by burning, I mean burning." I jerk to a stop and spin him instead. I pretend he's talking about racing. 'You worried?

You will never be able to end any battle if the people involved are unable to see their own hypocrisy, or how their insecurity contributed to their problems. Wounded people often choose to play the victim, so they can restore their dignity in unhealthy ways. Sadly, they do this through feeling justified, by making bad choices or actions (that honestly no diety would want them to do). This inability to accept their part in their unhappiness keeps them from growing. They need your prayers more than your anger. Just walk away. Let it go and pray that one day they will understand your pain, as much as you do theirs. Remember: The sexiest woman alive is one that can walk away from a place that God doesn't want them to be. Do so with your head held high and forgive yourself and others. When you can do this, you will know what God's definition of class is-- YOU!

You are a spitfire of a woman, do you know that? You remind me of a horse that hasn't been broken yet. All skittish and full of wild energy." "Are you for real?" Her jaw fell open. "Did you just compare me to a horse?

and we walked out into the sun. She was just as I had remembered her from seventy years earlier, when, aged five, I was dropped into an open cockpit at Hawkinge field and became mesmerized by the power and beauty of the Supermarine Spitfire. The long, lean lines, only slightly degraded by the bubble Perspex dome behind the pilot’s cockpit; the recognizable-anywhere elliptical wings, the genius of designer R. J. Mitchell. The four-bladed propeller, stark against the Kentish late-summer sky the same cerulean blue it had been in the summer of 1944. That was when I swore my little boy’s oath; that one day I, too, would fly a Spitfire.

She thought about the men with bows and arrows. They were really here, weren’t they, once upon a time. And mammoths and ladies in crinolines and Spitfires overhead. Places remained and time flowed through them like wind through the grass. Right now. This was the future turning into the past. One thing becoming another thing. Like a flame on the end of a match. Wood turning into smoke. If only we could burn brighter. A barn roaring in the night.

At the Suez Canal, the British became alarmed at the Egyptian debacle and the possibility of Israeli penetration near the canal. They demanded that the Jews stop or face the British Army. In warning, the British sent Spitfire fighters into the sky to gun the Israelis. It seemed only fitting somehow that the last shots of the War of Liberation were against the British. The Israeli Air Force brought down six British fighter planes. Then Israel yielded to international pressure by letting the Egyptians escape. The

Your mom shoulda told you she was just the diseased old slit all the local hobos used as a cum dumpster when they drank away their money and couldn't afford new porno mags.

I’d always been a spitfire, and proud of it. An unbreakable spirit in a world that wanted me to be quiet, small, subservient.

Remember, Spark. Your name. Fighter. Spitfire. Love. You.

This spitfire of a woman, a woman I had every reason to hate, made me question everything.

This woman is everything I never knew I needed—a sarcastic, fiery spitfire, a challenge. Different.

Tad they were too young to die…My Mom was a spitfire—a total accident waiting to happen. I’m like her—I can trip over nothing.” Tad chuckled acknowledging the thought. “My father…he was more serious. He used to give me lectures like no tomorrow, he had a strong sense of who I should be—who I wanted to be and how to guide me, and he was my best friend. It seems like everything I love is just out of my reach now.

On THE DECSIVE DUEL: SPITFIRE VS 109 The epic struggle between the Spitfire and the Messerschmitt 109 upon which so much of western civilization depended in the summer of 1940 has found the ideal biographer in David Isby. I write "biographer" because, like the men who flew these remarkable fighter planes, Isby sees them in almost human terms, transcending the mere mechanical. (Andrew Roberts, Author Of The Storm Of War )

I offer nothing more than simple facts, plain arguments, and common sense,” Thomas Paine, the spitfire son of an English grocer, wrote in Common Sense, in 1776. Kings have no right to reign, Paine argued, because, if we could trace hereditary monarchy back to its beginnings—“could we take off the dark covering of antiquity, and trace them to their first rise”—we’d find “the first of them nothing better than the principal ruffian of some restless gang.

She's a spitfire and she has no idea how beautiful she is. It always looks like she has something on her mind. It seems like she has the world on her shoulders and I just wish that I could take away all of her pain. I know she's been through a lot in her life, but she never lets it get to her. I can tell that somebody has really beaten her down and broken her spirits. It just makes me want to beat the living shit out of that person for making her feel the way she does. While she's the smartest person I know, she can also be so blind because I thought I'd gotten my feelings across, but I'm either not trying hard enough or she just thinks very little of herself. I want to be the one who helps her. Takes care of her. I know we could be something really great. The only question is whether she's willing to take that leap of faith with me. I'm just waiting for her to open her eyes and see what's standing right in front of her.

Termagant!” he moaned after her. “Shrew! Harridan! All right, all right, you win, you, you . . . uh . . . virago, you spitfire . . .” He rubbed his head and sat up, grinned sheepishly. Lin made an obscene gesture at him without turning around.

An offer indeed," said Lord Brandoch Daha; "if it be not in mockery. Say it loud, that my folk may hear." Corund did so, and the Demons heard it from the walls of the burg. Lord Brandoch Daha stood somewhat apart from Juss and Spitfire and their guard. "Libel it me out," he said. "For good as I now must deem thy word, thine hand and seal must I have to show my followers ere they consent with me in such a thing." "Write thou," said Corund to Gro. "To write my name is all my scholarship." And Gro took forth his ink-born and wrote in a great fair hand this offer on a parchment. "The most fearfullest oaths thou knowest," said Corund; and Gro wrote them, whispering, "He mocketh us only." But Corund said, "No matter: 'tis a chance worth our chancing," and slowly and with labour signed his name to the writing, and gave it to Lord Brandoch Daha. Brandoch Daha read it attentively, and tucked it in his bosom beneath his byrny. "This," he said, "shall be a keepsake for me of thee, my Lord Corund. Reminding me," and here his eyes grew terrible, "so long as there surviveth a soul of you in Witchland, that I am still to teach the world throughly what that man must abide that durst affront me with such an offer.

industries’ capacity to produce fighter aircraft—Hurricanes and Spitfires—at a rate high enough not just to compensate for the fast-mounting losses but also to increase the overall number of planes available for combat. Fighters alone in no way could win the war,

Too bad the Nazis aren't vampires, Ollie thought. At least with vampires, they could be deterred with holy water, crosses, and cloves of garlic. But with Nazis, we need antiaircraft guns, Hurricanes, and Spitfires. Ollie glanced back at the lofts. And maybe pigeons.

God, June thought, I have to get my life together. For my children. She thought of Nina’s bright smile, and Jay’s cocksure determination, and Hud’s gentleness, the way he always hugged her tight. She thought of Kit, that spitfire, who might just one day rule them all.

With respect to Duels, indeed, I have my own ideas. Few things, in this so surprising world, strike me with more surprise. Two little visual Spectra of men, hovering with insecure enough cohesion in the midst of the UNFATHOMABLE, and to dissolve therein, at any rate, very soon,—make pause at the distance of twelve paces asunder; whirl round; and, simultaneously by the cunningest mechanism, explode one another into Dissolution; and off-hand become Air, and Non-extant! Deuce on it (verdammt), the little spitfires!—Nay, I think with old Hugo von Trimberg: 'God must needs laugh outright, could such a thing be, to see his wondrous Manikins here below.

You need a husband and some babies to look after. Otherwise you're going to grow up into a virago...

Sterling,” said the mustached man with a mischievous grin. “You didn’t tell us you had company waiting for you.

Padding silently across the thick carpet, he reminded me of a lion tracking its prey.

What do you know, Cinderella?” he said with a smirk. “Looks like Prince Charming came with both shoes this time.

What do you do when just looking at someone renders you completely and totally awestruck?

Strictly speaking it (Virago) refers to a heroic, warlike woman, but there are many other less flattering synonyms - biddy, bitch, dragon, fishwife, fury, harpy, harridan, hussy, muckraker, scold, she-devil, siren, spitfire, termagant, tygress, vituperator, vixen, wench.... I long to be a combination of all of them because every one of those epithets sounds like a woman who would stand up for herself.

Here is something I learned in the hundreds of years I spent in the center of the Earth and later in the libraries and bedchambers, pressed between your pages, carving my way out of your stories with one of the knives you gave me to show your readers that I was a spitfire, a flame-breathing beauty with black hair and barbed bits. Imaginary countries and imaginary cunts are in the same category. They are the same story.

I sware unto you my furtherance if I prevailed. But now is mine army passed away as wax wasteth before the fire, and I wait the dark ferryman who tarrieth for no man. Yet, since never have I wrote mine obligations in sandy but in marble memories, and since victory is mine, receive these gifts: and first thou, O Brandoch Daha, my sword, since before thou wast of years eighteen thou wast accounted the mightiest among men-at-arms. Mightily may it avail thee, as me in time gone by. And unto thee, O Spitfire, I give this cloak. Old it is, yet may it stand thee in good stead, since this virtue it hath that he who weareth it shall not fall alive into the hand of his enemies. Wear it for my sake. But unto thee, O Juss, give I no gift, for rich thou art of all good gifts: only my good will give I unto thee, ere earth gape for me." ... So they fared back to the spy-fortalice, and night came down on the hills. A great wind moaning out of the hueless west tore the clouds as a ragged garment, revealing the lonely moon that fled naked betwixt them. As the Demons looked backward in the moonlight to where Zeldornius stood gazing on the dead, a noise as of thunder made the firm land tremble and drowned the howling of the wind. And they beheld how earth gaped for Zeldornius.

She wasn’t one of those girls who seemed to be everywhere, hands on hips, those girls who were described in certain books and movies as being “spitfires,” or, later on, “kickass.” Even now, at college, there were girls like this, fuck-you confident and assured of their place in the world. Whenever they came upon resistance in the form of outright sexism or even more generic grossness, they either vanquished it or essentially rolled their eyes and acted as if it was just too stupid for them to acknowledge.

Never, not in her wildest dreams, had she dared to imagine that she'd be that important to someone. As if she was air and without her, he couldn't breathe. "I love you too," she whispered. "And I forgive future Sailor for being a dumbass." Linking her arms around his neck, she spoke through the storm inside her. "In fact, I think future Sailor is going to be an incredible man I'll adore more with each and every day." "Yeah?" His lips kicked up in that familiar smile, but there was a question in his eyes, a quiet hunger. "What's he going to do?" Ísa knew what he was asking her, what he needed her to tell him. "He's going to be a man who works hard but who has time for the people he loves. And he definitely has time to get up to wicked things with a certain redhead." "I like this guy's priorities already." "He's also the kind of father who takes a turn doing the school run because he enjoys spending time with his child." It was scary doing this, laying out her dreams, but Sailor had given her everything. Ísa would be brave enough to give him the same back. "He has time to play with his baby, and to kiss his wife, and even if he forgets things now and then, or if he gets a little busy for a while, it's all right because his wife and child and all the members of his family know they're loved beyond measure." Perfection had never been what Ísa wanted. "Because when it matters, he's there. He sees the people who love him." Demon-blue eyes solemn, Sailor said, "I can do that." It was a vow. "I can be that guy." "You already are." Ísa whispered. "You're my dream, Sailor." But Sailor shook his head. "You ain't seen nothing yet, spitfire. I'm going to court the hell out of you." After a meditative pause, he added, "Nakedness during said courting is optional but highly encouraged." He was wonderful. And he was hers.

I walked into Haven Falls, knowing that one of the Hecate women would be powerful enough to become the new high queen.” His mouth brushed over my ear, nipping at the delicate lobe as he growled roughly. “I found her, except she turned out to be this ethereal, beautiful little spitfire who rattled and purred. Her scent drove me insane with need, and every part of her called to every part of me. It was supposed to be easy. Walk into your life, end it, and force the rest of your family to return so I could murder them on my land. I changed gears after meeting you. I have wanted no one or needed anything as much as I do you, Aria Hecate.

Your name?” he prompted again, releasing my shoulders and standing back up straight. It was then I realized again just how very tall he was. A frame that must have been close to six-four filled out a charcoal-gray suit in a way that made me wonder just how much time he spent wearing a suit and how much time he spent at the gym. “Yum,” I whispered before I could stop to think. “Your name is Yum?

I loved my wife,” Nelson said, and anything else Wallace had to say died on his tongue. “She was … vibrant. A spitfire. There wasn’t anyone like her in all the world, and for some reason, she chose me. She loved me.” He smiled, though Wallace thought it was more to himself than anything else. “She had this habit. Drove me up the wall. She’d come home from work, and the first thing she’d do was take off her shoes and leave them by the door. Her socks would follow, just laid out on the floor. A trail of clothes left there, waiting for me to pick them up. I asked her why she just didn’t put them in the hamper like a normal person. You know what she said?” “What?” Wallace asked. “She said that life was more than dirty socks.” Wallace stared at him. “That … doesn’t mean anything.” Nelson’s smile widened. “Right? But it made perfect sense to her.” His smile trembled. “I came home one day. I was late. I opened the door, and there were no shoes right inside. No socks on the floor. No trail of clothes. I thought for once she’d picked up after herself. I was … relieved? I was tired and didn’t want to have to clean up her mess. I called for her. She didn’t answer. I went through the house, room by room, but she wasn’t there. Late, I told myself. It happens. And then the phone rang. That was the day I learned my wife had passed unexpectedly. And it’s funny, really. Because even as they told me she was gone, that it had been quick and she hadn’t suffered, all I could think about was how I’d give anything to have her shoes by the door. Her dirty socks on the floor. A trail of clothes leading toward the bedroom.

Many hundreds of craft of all sizes and nationalities - transatlantic steamers, full-rigged ships, barques, schooners, and fishing smacks - were running into the Sound from the open sea, making for the shelter of the roads of Elsinore. Not a single vessel was heading the other way, all were scudding in before the tempest; many of them, no doubt, had put to sea several days before, bound round the Skaw into the German Ocean, but had been compelled to turn back by the violence of the hurricane. They were all staggering along under the smallest possible amounts of canvas, pitching heavily into the frightfully high seas; here a full-rigged ship under close-reefed topsails; here a schooner under fore and main trysails; here a brig under bare poles; here a pilot-cutter under spit-fire jib, and the balance-reef down in her mainsail. Several vessels had lost spars or portions of their bulwarks; one Norwegian barque was evidently water-logged, and in a sinking condition, and was floundering slowly into smoother water, but just in time; and outside the Sound, on the raging Kattegat, were hundreds of other vessels, some hull down on the horizon, making for the same refuge, their fate still uncertain among those gigantic rollers, and, no doubt, with many an anxious heart on board of them.

On August 18, 1941, Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr. of the Royal Canadian Air Force took a new airplane, the Spitfire Mk I, on a test flight. Magee had received his wings as a pilot only two months earlier. As he flew the Spitfire up to new heights of 33,000 feet, he felt inspired to write a poem that has now become the official poem of both the Royal Canadian Air Force and the British Royal Air Force. Short films have been created with this poem as a basis. In its entirety or in part, the poem can be found in songs, on headstones, in presidential addresses, in museums, and in eulogies. Some have even used it as a prayer. High Flight Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds—and done a hundred things You have not done—wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long, delirious blue I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew. And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod The high, untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Based on the belief I chose, I could have created either one of those worlds. If I had chosen to believe Spitfire was a problem dog and I had acted on that belief, it would have been a self-fulfilling prophecy. By my belief and actions, I would have created that world. But I chose to believe Spitfire was a good dog, and acted accordingly. By those actions, my wife and I created that more positive shared world, with a lot of help from the dog, of course. That is the power of a story web. Changing stories can change reality.

down

The general foreman was a terror to almost everyone, especially us lads. A dreaded punishment for misbehaviour was to be taken to the main floor, issued with a hacksaw and about a dozen blades. A long dural block was then marked off by the toolmakers and the lad earmarked for punishment was set the job of sawing, with a demanded standard of accuracy, the whole length of it. This certainly made us think more than twice about stepping out of line in working hours.

What’s the fastest speed you ever went in your Spitfire?

I love the capital. The wind on the health might call for a time, but the facile glitter of the city was the stronger. Self-esteem, I suppose, is one cause; for in the city, work of man, one is somebody, feet on the pavement, suit on the body, anybody's equal and nobody's fool; but in the country, work of god, one is nothing, less than the earth, the birds, and the trees; one is discordant - a blot.

Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind.

Airplanes were a novel sight on the island, and each time one flew low, the Sansegoti cowered and trembled. The whir of Spitfires circled above their heads like a swarm of killer bees. The Germans shot at them and the planes flew away, but they always came back—until they bombed the cannery.

Patience had never been her virtue, and she doubted it ever would be. But determination? She had that in abundance. And she didn’t believe it had ever been as hard for a man to prove himself as it was for a woman to do the same.

In a world where she looked after everyone else, he was the only one who looked after her.

I’m an unguarded fortress. My gates are open, my weapons surrendered. All for this woman. For my spitfire with the power to incinerate me. And maybe she will, but not until I set her on fire.

Taking a deep breath, Sailor decided to lay himself at her feet. "I was imagining the future and thinking of how if everything went according to plan, I'd have a very successful business with a high turnover." He made sure his hands were locked behind Ísa's back--just in case she decided to leave him in her dust a fourth time. "And since I'd be rich, I'd be able to buy houses and other nice things for my family." Ísa frowned. "I don't think your family expects that." "They don't exactly need my largess either," Sailor muttered. "But in my future fantasy, I'm buying everyone fancy cars and houses. Go with it." Ísa's lips twitched. "Okay, big spender. What else is fantasy Sailor doing?" "He's building a ginormous mansion. Swimming pool, tennis court, the works." "Is he hiring a buff personal masseuse named Sven?" "Hell no." He glared at her. "The masseuse is a fifty-year-old forner bodybuilder named Helga. Now, can I carry on?" Pretending to zip up her lips and throw away the key, Ísa made a "go on" motion. "Future Sailor is also creating a huge walk-in closet for you and filling it with designer shoes and clothes. He's giving you everything your heart desires." A flicker of darkness in Ísa's gaze, but she didn't interrupt... though her hands went still on his shoulders. "And there's a tricked-out nursery too," he added. "Plus a private playground for our rug rats." Throat moving, Ísa said, "How many?" It was a husky question. "Seven, I think." "Very funny, mister." "I'm not done." Sailor was the one who swallowed this time. "And in this fantasy house, future Sailor walks in late for dinner again because of a board meeting, and he has a gorgeous, sexy, brilliant wife and adorable children. But his redhead doesn't look at him the same anymore. And it doesn't matter how many shoes he buys her or how many necklaces he gives her, she's never again going to look at him the way she did before he stomped on her heart. Ísa's lower lip began to quiver, but she didn't speak. "I'm so sorry, baby." Sailor cupped her face, made sure she saw the sheer terror he felt at the thought of losing her. "I've been so tied to this idea of becoming a grand success that I forgot what it was all about in the first place--being there for the people I love. Sticking through the good and the bad. Never abandoning them." Silent tears rolled own Ísa's face. "But that great plan of mine?" he said, determined not to give himself any easy outs. "It'd have mean abandoning everyone. How can I be there for anyone when all I do is work? When I shove aside all other commitments? When the people I love hesitate to ask for my time because I'm too tired and too busy?" Using his thumbs, he rubbed away her tears. More splashed onto the backs of his hands, her hurt as hot as acid. "Spitfire, please," he begged, breaking. "I'll let you punch me as many times as you want if you stop crying. With a big red glove. And you can post photos online." Ísa pressed her lips together, blinked rapidly several times. And pretended to punch him with one fist, the touch a butterfly kiss. Catching her hand, he pressed his lips to it. "That's more like my Ísa." He wrapped his arms around her again. And then he told her the most important thing. "I realized that I could become a multimillionaire, but it would mean nothing if my redhead didn't look at me the way she does now, if she expected to have to take care of everything alone like she's always done--because her man was a selfish bastard who was never there." Ísa rubbed her nose against his. "You're being very hard on future Sailor," she whispered, her voice gone throaty. "That dumbass deserves it," Sailor growled. "He was going to put his desire to be a big man above his amazing, smart, loving redhead.

I want you to tell me everything and I promise, whatever it is, we’ll get through it. If we can survive my parents, we can survive anything.” “You honestly believe that, don’t you? You believe in us that much?” “I don’t need to believe in us. I know it’s true because I’m absolutely gone for you, Spitfire.

With their misunderstandings in the past, he looked forward to meeting her at each meal. When he lost his temper, she didn’t shrink back and flee. She raised her chin and stared at him in defiance, daring him to raise his voice again. His red-haired spitfire.

Every day the Germans used to fly serenely over Tours, bomb the city at leisure and fly back again, while nobody raised a finger to stop them, and the French pilots sat in the bar and drank their vermouth, with a lot of brand new fighters standing on the aerodrome outside. Incredible but true.

Lack of suitable petrol made it impossible for the twelve Spitfires to escort us.

She was so small. He forgot, because she was such a tough little spitfire who gave hell worse than most men. But when she held a baby, it always struck him how tiny she was, looking more like a very helpful big sister than a mother with that child taking up so much space in her arms. And he'd think, I can't believe I did that to this pretty little thing. I can't believe she's strong enough to carry it.

I am Iron. I am Death. I am Gold. "SPITFIRE: TEN MINUTES!

Were you nervous tonight?” “No.” Just now, I think. I’m nervous right now. “Why would I have been? He smiles again. It’s smaller this time, and something about it makes my heart hurt. “You and I were on a date, spitfire.

One night I was lying in bed and cuddling my eighteen-month-old. She was asleep in my arms with her angelic face resting in the crook of my elbow. We were lying next to my husband, a man whom I love deeply and who loves me. On the floor on a little pallet was my three-year-old, a spitfire little sprite who brightens my world. I realized that I only ever wanted to be skinny because I wanted to be loved and happy. But I already have that. Skinny hasn’t seemed very important to me since then.

at the

The Spanish Spitfire. I hate that name. As though all latin women are nothing but a spark waiting to explode.” Lisette sympathized. “I know, but everything in Hollywood is labeled, manufactured, molded, sanitized, or fabricated for the public. Even Morty himself. Rue the day they completely forget about you. Why do you think I prefer to work behind the scenes?” “Yes, well, we all have secrets, don’t we? Even that little Marlo.” A devilish smile came to Catalina’s lips. “What do you mean?” Lisette asked, realizing there was a nugget of gold underneath Catalina’s lava—or perhaps just buried dynamite. It was her job to find out just how explosive information was before it went off.  “Nothing.” Her response was too nonchalant for Lisette’s comfort.  “What do you know, Catalina?

from around the precious plants. The fresh air was exhilarating and John’s aunt chatted merrily about times gone by and what Italy had been like when she and John’s mother were children. ‘But that was before the war,’ she sighed. ‘It is far behind us.’ As Mary Anne pulled Mathilda’s blanket a little higher around the cherry-pink face, a thought occurred to her. ‘I think I have something that used to belong to your sister – perhaps to you too.’ ‘Oh?’ Maria eyed her quizzically. ‘Yes,’ said Mary Anne, and went on to tell her about the time John had come to borrow money against a silver crucifix that she’d guessed had belonged to his mother. ‘He’d wanted the money for Daw’s engagement and wedding ring. I gave him the money but never sold the cross on. I couldn’t do it somehow. I kept thinking that one day he might want it back.’ ‘You have this?’ said Maria, her eyes shining. ‘You remember it?’ Maria clapped her hands together. ‘Of course I do!’ ‘Michael found it in the ruins of the pawn shop. I still have it.’ She turned and looked with gratitude into Maria’s dark eyes. ‘You’ve been so kind to me. You must have it back.’ Maria’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘It is a pleasure. I cannot thank you enough.’ They sat on a park bench. Mathilda was sitting up, observing everything with unusual interest. ‘She’s a lovely child,’ said Maria. Mary Anne murmured a reply. Her eyes were elsewhere, her attention caught by a man in a trench coat walking along the path at the side of the bowling green. She fancied he had been staring at them. 19 Lizzie and the wing commander had been travelling between airfields, ‘co-ordinating events’ as Hunter liked to call it, when he’d spotted a dog fight in the distance. Streaks of white vapour trail criss-crossed the sky as the Messerschmitt and the Spitfire locked horns above the English countryside. In their midst was a low-flying bomber, the bone of contention between the two. Hunter got out a pair of binoculars. Lizzie shaded her eyes with her hand. ‘They’re chasing the bomber.’ ‘Correction,’ Hunter said slowly. ‘The Spitfire is chasing the

Cade, one of the most recently appointed royal advisers — and the youngest — took a liking to me rather quickly with my spitfire tongue and thirst for knowledge. As a girl, I had a tutor in the village, but she’d tire of my need for more books, parchment, and knowledge. I wanted to know everything. I didn’t understand why, but memorizing facts about the surrounding kingdoms just seemed necessary.

I don’t have a problem killing anyone who dares to fucking cross me—be it a man or a woman—but I draw the line at manhandling defenseless females. Not that this one is missing her stinger. If she left her marks on dumb and dumber upstairs, and with my own blood dripping down my arm as evidence, this spitfire is the furthest thing from helpless. I bet she’s getting ready to deliver her next strike.

You are still as handsome as ever,” Frankie said, unable to look away. “My ex-wife would disagree.” “You’re not—” “It’s a long, sad story with a happy ending for both of us. I stayed with her for years. We had another baby. A girl. She’s nine, and a real spitfire.” He stared down at her. “Her name is Frances.

She’s a three-legged spitfire with a gnarly little attitude, but she’s mine, and she doesn’t judge me for all the terrible things I do.

When the big German guns at Calais fired on us, we realized, we had been strafed by Spitfires from the RAF during working up exercises for the invasion, accidentally attacked by the USN off Normandy after D-Day and shelled by the British Army in the English Channel. It was about time the enemy took a few shots at us too!" Jack Harold, RCNVR, Signalman HMCS TRENTONIAN Chapter 9, White Ensign Flying -The Story of HMCS TRENTONIAN.

Except for those occasional looks, she’d always had the impression he was avoiding her. And the fact that he was so attractive pinched hard. She’d done her best to ignore him, but she’d taken a liking to his herd of shining black Angus cattle. In fact she liked them a whole lot more than him.

He’d always seemed ageless. Until Maizy’s recklessness had nearly killed a man.

Maizy was a little bit afraid of what it might be because Pa had gotten a few wild ideas in his day.

The door swung open. Rawhide and the doc had shoved some of the jumble aside and dragged his bed into this room so Rylan could look out the window and see his barn and corral. It gave him a nice view while he fretted.

A man flirting with bankruptcy had no business thinking of a woman. Which of course hadn’t stopped him. And it was all the worse because, strange as it was to see her dressed up in manly clothes, there was no denying that the woman made a pair of britches look mighty fetching. He’d stayed away from her, and when he couldn’t, he’d hid his interest in cool words.

He snapped his attention back to the old man. “What does that mean?” “I have laid down the law, and Maizy is making some changes, aren’t you, girl?” Auggie glared over his shoulder at Maizy. “Yes, Pa.” Rylan could see that being polite really didn’t suit her. “She’s gonna give up her hoydenish ways and be a proper lady. Iffen she don’t change now, she will go on shaming me forever and never find a man that’d have her for a wife.

I can manage.” He grasped the fork, but his hand trembled as he tried to stab a piece of elk. “Let me.” Without asking permission, she plucked the fork away and offered him a bite of meat. He opened his mouth, most likely to say he could do it himself. Before he could fuss, she stuck the food in. He chewed, then his mutinous expression changed. “This is delicious.” Maizy smiled. “I made plenty for your cowpoke too. When he comes in, there’ll be a hot meal ready.” “He’ll be late. He’s working all the hours God made trying to keep up with a job that was too much for the two of us to begin with.

She remembered now exactly why she’d gone to war with him when they’d first met. He’d seen her in her britches and before he’d opened his mouth, she’d been riveted on his handsome face and masculine form. The woman in her, which had been sleeping all her life, woke up and wanted him. Every soft and feminine part of her heart was exposed and vulnerable . . . and he’d sneered. The female side of her had lived just long enough to be terribly hurt. Maizy had dug deep to keep that hurt from showing and found anger. The same thing was happening now, and she reacted in the same way.

You propose marriage with the same breath you tell me you’re ashamed of me.

He clutched his hands into a ball, praying, Why, God, why? I’ve been a faithful servant and served my church well. So why do You feel the need to test me? Actually, punish would be a more apt description.

She had on men’s clothes—the hat, britches, shirt, boots, even a six-gun she wore on her hip. It had never bothered her before Rylan Carstens. She wiped her eyes. It was sure enough bothering her now.

She took a little pleasure in defying him. And it was a harmless defiance, especially if he didn’t know she was here.

Rylan bent low over his horse, coming as fast as he could on the rocky ground that rose to this bluff along the river. Was he trying to kill her? If so, he was doing a poor job of it. The bullets were missing, going way over her head. But even on her worst day, she’d never done anything to make the man killing mad. And Maizy knew, even though Rylan seemed like a mighty cranky man, that he wasn’t the type to shoot a young woman, especially not for just being annoying.

Pound for pound there was no meaner animal on the face of the earth than a grizzly. Maizy had a Colt in her holster, but a bullet wasn’t enough to bring one of these huge beasts down. Maybe a perfect shot right into the heart or brain would do it . . . but mostly . . . getting shot just made ’em mad.

Maizy saw her chance and ran. A shout and another blast of gunfire sent Maizy running straight down the grassy slope for Rylan. Her eyes locked with his and she saw horror. She thought he’d seen her, but she could tell he’d been out here riding herd and seen the grizzly. A thud from behind told her the bear was off the ledge. Another growl seemed to blow hot breath on the back of Maizy’s neck. Or maybe that was just the hair on the back of her neck standing up in pure terror.

She sure as shootin’ hoped that proved to be true.

Someone knocked on his front door, someone brave because Rylan knew he’d not been fit company for anyone.

They looked at each other in dismay, and she knew just what he was thinking. He wanted her gone, but he needed her. She wanted to help, but she wanted to do it wearing britches. Neither of them had a hope of getting what they wanted.

Then I can turn my attention to cleaning. It’s a fine cabin but . . . but . . .” She looked a bit lost as she studied all the clutter stacked through the cabin. “I need to knock a f-few cobwebs down.” Rylan saw about a hundred cobwebs without turning his head. “And the floor needs to be swept and scrubbed.” She had to find the floor first.

The house was here when I bought the ranch, and this clutter came with it. I’ve added my own things to the mess, and I haven’t spent a lick of time tending it. I reckon that’s pretty easy to see.

It’s hard to think of you as a Margaret. Maizy suits you.” “I doubt I’d answer to anything else.” Maizy smiled as she adjusted the cloth.

Thank you. I haven’t been able to eat much. Rawhide’s meals lean toward tough, mostly burned meat. Maybe a good meal will help me regain some strength and knit these bones a bit faster.

What’s more, Miss Princeton sided with the Methodists.” “No!” the preacher from Wyoming exclaimed with a hint of amusement. “She also discussed politics in the churchyard.” “Shocking,” exclaimed the reverend from Colorado with mock gravity. Gregory studied the others; were they not taking him seriously? “And she made the children laugh during Bible class. Can you imagine? Laughing in church? And when I disapproved of a young couple holding hands during the Doxology, she called me a stuffed shirt.

When they did, she wore a dress, but she grumbled the whole time.

I told you he had calico fever,” he drawled in a Texas twang. “Why else would a young man mope around like a tick-fevered doggie?

I liked having you tag along with me on the ranch when you were just a sprout. I was hurtin’ bad from missing your ma, and I wanted you with me.” Then Pa took her by the shoulders and held her away from him. “And ever since you was half-grown, you did your share and part of mine. I’ve needed you. Truth be told, I doubt I could’ve made a go of this ranch without you. I’ve been a selfish old man who decided I didn’t have to live by any rules but my own, and that’s my sin.

Praying should help, remembering Bible verses should help. Rylan figured he must be doing it wrong because it was only making him worry more. So he forced his thoughts from those worries and found himself watching every move Maizy made. That was another kind of madness.

Her sympathy was genuine. Rylan felt it all the way to his bones.

He pictured Maizy here, permanently. His. He liked the idea so much it shocked him. And then he pictured her at his side when they got thrown off the land. Rylan hated to see her go. But he knew if he talked her into staying permanently, he’d end up dragging her down with him when he failed. And that would hurt worse than broken ribs any day.

I didn’t expect you to do all this work, Maizy. You probably don’t even need to come over every day.” And that made him feel so sorry for himself. What would he do without her company?