Stamford Quotes

By Jove!" I cried; "if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone." Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wineglass. “You don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion.

When the owner fired me, he said he was sorry, since he admired what I was trying to do. Really? What was it, exactly, that I was trying to do? Oh right. Something about equality.

We were always looking for reasons a woman might be murdered, other than our common gender. We want to blame the victim for what happened to her, when we know the problem is almost always men.

You can be killed for just being female

Without all that young stuff, Stamford, you will die a slave. And it will not be a pretty die.

Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’ said Stamford, introducing us.

What else do we have to expose and investigate corruption and maintain informed citizenry? When all levels of government and justice system are abusing power, where can people go with claims of that abuse? Only the press.

- "Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us. - "How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.

When they can hear each other over the wind and the music, they speak Connecticut: I will not Stamford this type of behavior. What’s Groton into you? What did Danbury his Hartford? New Haven can wait. Darien’t no place I’d rather I’d rather be.

By Jove!” I cried, “if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone.” Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass. “You don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet

On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire." "In spirit?" "Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford's for the

No one then considered the privilege implied in the fact that white literature was the core curriculum and black literature was the elective. And with no people of color in the student body, it was as if we were studying an ancient civilization with no connection to our lives.

They’d been shielded from every imaginable threat since birth, bound in car seats, topped with bicycle helmets, and slathered in 35 SPF sunscreen to protect their fair skin, and yet I knew, deep down, I was helpless to protect them from the unimaginable dangers, the ones where young women ended up as body dumps by the side of the road.

I guess you can tell by now that I was thoroughly fascinated with Susan. I’d never met anyone like her. I’d never even heard of anyone like her. I was also feeling just the teeniest bit angry, though. Susan was very special. That was obvious, but everyone treated her like some kind of outcast. Her parents were taking her out of one away-from-home school and putting her in another. Why couldn’t they keep her with them? There are schools for handicapped kids around here. Day schools like the one Matt Braddock goes to in Stamford. There are also classes for handicapped kids in the public schools. And why didn’t her parents try to help Susan make friends? She couldn’t talk, but neither could Matt, and he had plenty of friends. The kids in his neighborhood learned some sign language so they could play with him. I decided that I would not only take on the job with Susan, but that I would use the month I had with her to show the Felders that she could live and learn and make friends at home. She did not have to be an outcast.

Dawn’s afternoons at the Baker Institute for physically disabled kids sounded fascinating. She rode to Stamford in a specially equipped van with four children from Stoneybrook who went to Baker for physical therapy, classes in the arts, and a chance to make new friends. The bus driver was a woman who was going to college to learn to be a physical therapist. She drove the bus to earn some extra money, but the kids were more than just a job to her. She really enjoyed being with them. “Candace is so funny,” Dawn told me. “She jokes around with the kids, and they love her. She treats all of them the way you’d treat kids who aren’t in wheelchairs or wearing braces. She’ll say to them, ‘Hurry up! I haven’t got all day,’ and the kids just giggle. Most people tiptoe around the kids like they’re going to break. And never mention their braces or anything. But if a friend of yours got new clothes, you’d make a comment, right? So if a kid gets on the bus with decorations all over the back of his wheelchair, Candace will say, ‘Your chair looks great today! I think you should go into business as a decorator.

Logic has never been idealism’s strong suit. Every time I’d pointed out some inequity in our realtionship to Joe, something as basic as who had first dibs on the car, he said, “What are you going to do? Call NOW?” as he drove away, laughing. He thought the National Organization of Women was a joke, and feminism itself hysterically funny. It wasn’t funny. It was nothing less than self-determination. It’s what, in the end, we were all after. Me, Margo, Howie, Joe. We wanted equality. We wanted justice. We wanted not to be controlled by the world as it was.

saying this to Patrick, “that he misses me. He was clearly discombobulated when he saw me, and he did see me. I am quite certain he knew it was me. But there was also delight. Before he had a chance to check his emotions, I saw delight.” As she speaks, Grace recognizes she still has loyalty; she still cares. This is her husband of over twenty years. Whatever betrayal has happened, whatever infidelities there have been, he is still her husband. She does not want to see him destroyed. They talk for a long time. About everything. And nothing. Hitting traffic in Stamford, Grace reluctantly says good-bye, turning off the highway and taking the back roads. Through Darien, the pretty water town of Rowayton, through Norwalk, Grace delighting in the gorgeous old homes. When she couldn’t get ahold of her by phone days ago, Grace went back to Anne, who arranged this meeting. Emily didn’t want to talk on the phone, she said, but they could meet; she would tell her everything. Past the churches, under the railway tracks, she turns into the pretty village of Southport and pulls up outside the Driftwood Diner. She knows who Emily must be as soon as she walks in, a pretty woman sitting at a table by herself, her face drawn and tired. “Emily?” She nods as Grace sits, orders a coffee, makes small talk,

Every day, the markets were driven less directly by human beings and more directly by machines. The machines were overseen by people, of course, but few of them knew how the machines worked. He knew that RBC’s machines—not the computers themselves, but the instructions to run them—were third-rate, but he had assumed it was because the company’s new electronic trading unit was bumbling and inept. As he interviewed people from the major banks on Wall Street, he came to realize that they had more in common with RBC than he had supposed. “I’d always been a trader,” he said. “And as a trader you’re kind of inside a bubble. You’re just watching your screens all day. Now I stepped back and for the first time started to watch other traders.” He had a good friend who traded stocks at a big-time hedge fund in Stamford, Connecticut, called SAC Capital. SAC Capital was famous (and soon to be infamous) for being one step ahead of the U.S. stock market. If anyone was going to know something about the market that Brad didn’t know, he figured, it would be them. One spring morning he took the train up to Stamford and spent the day watching his friend trade. Right away he saw that, even though his friend was using technology given to him by Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley and the other big firms, he was experiencing exactly the same problem as RBC: The market on his screens was no longer the market. His friend would hit a button to buy or sell a stock and the market would move away from him. “When I see this guy trading and he was getting screwed—I now see that it isn’t just me. My frustration is the market’s frustration. And I was like, Whoa, this is serious.” Brad’s problem wasn’t just Brad’s problem. What people saw when they looked at the U.S. stock market—the numbers on the screens of the professional traders, the ticker tape running across the bottom of the CNBC screen—was an illusion. “That’s when I realized the markets are rigged. And I knew it had to do with the technology. That the answer lay beneath the surface of the technology. I had absolutely no idea where. But that’s when the lightbulb went off that the only way I’m going to find out what’s going on is if I go beneath the surface.

The well-known Mr. Davenport, and Mr. Eaton, and several eminent persons that came over to the Massachuset-bay among some of the first planters, were strongly urged, that they would have settled in this Bay; but hearing of another Bay to the south-west of Connecticut, which might be more capable to entertain those that were to follow them, they desired that their friends at Connecticut would purchase of the native proprietors for them, all the land that lay between themselves and Hudson’s River, which was in part effected. Accordingly removing thither in the year 1637, they seated themselves in a pleasant Bay, where they spread themselves along the sea-coast, and one might have been suddenly as it were surprised with the sight of such notable towns, as first New-Haven; then Guilford; then Milford; then Stamford; and then Brainford, where our Lord Jesus Christ is worshipped in churches of an evangelical constitution; and from thence, if the enquirer make a salley over to Long-Island, he might there also have seen the churches of our Lord beginning to take root in the eastern parts of that island.

Before sending the letter, David showed it to George—who protested. “His dad helped him concoct the letter—and it was concocted in that it said things like that famous quote ‘Brian Epstein’s got the Beatles and you should have us.’ ” Undeterred, David assured him, “Don’t worry. It will be all right.” His instincts were on the money. Bloom, amused by the youngster’s chutzpah, passed the letter on to Les Conn, a friend from the Jewish scene in Stamford Hill. Within a couple of days, a telegram arrived at David’s house instructing him to call Conn’s Temple Bar number.

I always had one foot in real world and another one in suspense and mystery.

I always had one foot in reality and another one in suspense and mystery.

I need not say I meet with every kindness both here and at Stamford, and can only wonder what people can see in me to call forth so much attention and regard. They do not see me as I see myself, and it is my mercy that they do not know all the workings of a vile and depraved heart.

The sound of the white touching down all around him was like the sound of feet behind an arras, or like tiny, glottal laughter, if not of God the father, then perhaps of one of his angels, archangels, principalities, thrones, dominions, powers, seraphs, he’d known them all by heart as a choirboy in Stamford.

Rob Rosiello, who ran McKinsey’s Stamford, Connecticut, office while I was there, used to say that the most profitable line in the English language was “Would you like fries with that?

Celeste was practically talking to herself now because Stamford and the baby were in a world of their own. The baby's hands had reached the man's face and he was tapping every feature of it, doing everything that was necessary for the man to say the words the baby had come to expect in their brief history together. Stamford's mouth opened more and more. 'You here early this mornin,' Stamford Crow Blueberry would say to Ellwood Freemen that day some twenty years later in Richmond. Ellwood would be walking up the street with the reins of his horse in his hand, and Stamford would be walking with a baby resting on his shoulder, the newest member of the Richmond Home for Colored Orphans. Mother and father killed in a fire. Walking and singing to the baby in the morning seemed to calm the infant for the rest of the day. Ellwood Freemen would say, 'I have come to fulfill my duty, just as I promised, Mr. Blueberry. Is that to be one of my pupils?' Stamford would shake his hand, nodding. Ellwood said, 'You look as if you didn't believe I would keep my word.' 'Oh,' Stamford said, 'I whatn't worried. I know where your mama and papa live. I know where I could find them to tell em that their boy didn't keep his word.' Ellwood told him he had to tend to some business elsewhere in Richmond and would return shortly to settle in at the home for orphans. He got on his horse and rode slowly out to the main street, the street that would be named for Stamford Blueberry and his wife Delphie. Blueberry, with the new orphan on his shoulder, followed. He watched Ellwood take his time going off and Stamford that day would realize for the first time just how far they had come. He would have cried as he had that day after the ground opened up and took the dead crows, but he had in his arms a baby new to being an orphan. Stamford, it don't matter now, he told himself, watching Ellwood and the horse saunter away. It don't matter now. The day and the sun all about him told that was true. It mattered not how long he had wandered in the wilderness, how long they had kept him in chains, how long he had helped them and kept himself in his own chains; none of that mattered now. He patted the baby's back, turned around and went back to the Richmond Home for Colored Orphans. No, it did not matter. It mattered only that those kind of chains were gone and that he had crawled out into the clearing and was able to stand up on his hind legs and look around and appreciate the differences between then and now, even on the awful Richmond days when the now came dressed as the then. Behind him, as he walked back, was the very corner where more than a hundred years later they would put that first street sign - Stamford and Delphie Crow Blueberry Street.

Delphie put her hands to his shoulders, held on to them, taking the full measure of him. “You too heavy a man for me to carry, Stamford. I done carried heavy men and I know how they can break your back. I ain’t got but this one back and I don’t want it broke again, least not before it can see fifty years.” She stepped back, turned and went into her home. She was used to nursing people, trying to heal them, and so it was a long moment before she shut the door, and when she did shut it, it made no sound.

I’ll get the damn blueberries and you just go in the house,” Stamford said. The thunder and lightning were closer, and Stamford was now aware that there was more than rain about. He looked at the girl and the bucket. “I’ll get the damn things.” He knew he was going to die but he thought this little thing might provide him with a nothing stool way off in the corner of heaven that nobody cared about. That corner of heaven reserved for fools, people too stupid to come out of the rain. People got to that corner by heaven’s back door.

A few days after I left UConn my mom took me to a psychiatrist in Stamford. After talking with me for an hour, smiling kindly and calmly asking me questions, he diagnosed me. “You have an anxiety disorder,” he said. “It’s a rare and very unpleasant type called ‘plateau panic disorder.’ Basically you’re having panic attacks that don’t ever end.

Not quite,” said Dad. “They’re combining the Stamford branch with the Boston branch. And I’m being transferred back to New York.

Tapping Bill’s chest, Franny glided off him and lay on her side, her breath stroking his week-old whiskers. “Our morning of lovemaking in the Magnolia mansion will keep me satisfied until you’re ready. When we do tip the velvet, I know you’ll leave me exhausted but begging for more.” “I’m so lucky to have you.” “Indeed, you are, Bill Stamford.” Franny toyed with Bill’s whiskers. “You know I don’t like a beard. You’re going to have to shave it.” ‘I know. I just didn’t feel like shaving since the wedding.” He kissed her. “Then you’re not angry that we haven’t joined giblets?

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Emmeline Stamford met Macdonald’s eyes with a glance such as she might have bestowed on an intelligent Hindu, remote, condescending and faintly tinged with dislike.

Following graduation, and after three years of working with General Electric in New York, I took a job in their office in Stamford, Connecticut. And though I was sad leaving a city where there seemed to be a cinema on every corner, I was happy to learn about a newly opened theater near Stamford specializing in experimental, independent, and classic films. One week an unusual advertisement in the theater’s schedule caught my attention. It was a haunting black-and-white photograph of a woman’s face floating above a single word: Thérèse. Though I wasn’t sure what the film was about—something about the ad seemed vaguely religious—I convinced a coworker to accompany me to the screening. The film, directed by Alain Cavalier, was a bold, spare look at the life of Thérèse of Lisieux, the nineteenth-century French saint, about whom I knew absolutely nothing. The almost complete absence of physical scenery meant that the film focused on the quiet interactions of the few characters.

I prefer to use 'The Medieval Scapini Tarot' deck produced by U.S. Games Systems Inc., Stamford, Connecticut. The cards are beautiful, captivating and of excellent quality, and I endorse them wholeheartedly. I should add that I have no connection with U.S. Games Systems, and this is an unbiased endorsement. That having been said, if U.S. Games Systems were appreciative of my comments, and offered me many free packs of cards (or large sums of money) as a charming gesture of goodwill, I should be happy to accept such tokens without compromising my integrity in any way. They might like to bear in mind that in future editions of this book my endorsements may have 'evolved' in the direction of other card companies who are, perhaps, a little more generous in their appreciation of my valuable judgements.

He is not a man that is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.” STAMFORD, DESCRIBING SHERLOCK HOLMES TO DR. WATSON, IN SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, A STUDY IN SCARLET

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