Stern Warning Quotes

If she suddenly threw herself in a river or off a building or into traffic, there would be plenty of warning signs to point to. Did she seem depressed? She was distant. She didn’t make many friends. She was struggling in her classes. All true. But would it have mattered if she’d been someone else? If she’d been a social butterfly, they would have said she liked to drink away her pain. If she’d been a straight-A student, they would have said she’d been eaten alive by her perfectionism. There were always excuses for why girls died.

You cannot go and warn him," Saeunn said sternly. "It is too late. You would never find him." "I know," said Renn without turning her head. To herself she added, But I've still got to try.

He even moved like an animal, fluid strength and surety. And all the devil ever wants in exchange, a small voice said warningly, is a soul. Oh, puh-lease, Chloe rebuked herself sternly. He's a man, nothing more. A big, beautiful, sometimes scary man, but that's all. Graceful as a stalking tiger, the big, beautiful, scary man dropped into a crouch on the ground before her, his dark eyes glinting in the shadowy night. They knelt mere inches apart. When he spoke, his words were painstakingly articulated, as if speaking was an immense effort. His words were carefully spaced, tight, coming in rushes, with pauses between. "I will give you. Every. Artifact I own. If you kiss. Me and ask no. Questions." "Huh?" Chloe gaped. "No questions," he hissed. He shook his head violently, as if trying to scatter something from it.

It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

The bleak splendors of these remote and lonely forests rather overwhelmed him with the sense of his own littleness. That stern quality of the tangled backwoods which can only be described as merciless and terrible, rose out of these far blue woods swimming upon the horizon, and revealed itself. He understood the silent warning. He realized his own utter helplessness.

Here,” she said. She pulled the shirt over her head, revealing a black bra and ribs shadowed like the furrows of a tilled field. “Don't get Dawes.” Why was she so willing to put herself in his hands? Was she unafraid or just reckless? Neither trait boded well for her future at Lethe. But he had the sense it was neither of those things. It felt like she was testing him now, like she'd laid down another challenge. “Some propriety wouldn't kill you,” he said. “Why take the chance?” “Usually when a woman takes her clothes off in front of me I have some warning.” Alex shrugged, and the shadows moved over her skin. “Next time, I'll light the signal fires.” “That would be best.

You were brave to do what you did," he said slowly. "And I know you did it out of live for our friends. But if you ever do something like this again, I can promise you that Ten Men and Executives are going to be the least of your worries- do you understand?" His espression was very severe, his jaw was set, and his words were clipped and terse as if spoken with much suppressed anger. Kate burst out laughing. "Milligan," she said, "I'll bet you scare the wits out of bad guys, but as a dad you don't scare anyone very much." "She's right." Constance said. "I can tell you aren't really angry." Milligan frowned and looked at Reynie, but Reynie averted his eyes to avoid disappointing him- for he, too, had been unfazed by Milligan's stern admonition. Only Sticky, furiously polishing his spectacles in the back seat, showed the effect Milligan had hoped for. But Sticky was easily unnerved and could hardly be used as a measure. "Well," Milligan said, his face relaxing. "At least I tried." "... Speaking of which, the boys weren't actually touching the breifcases in the trunk, I hope?" Wondering how Milligan knew, Kate stuck her head out the office door and gave Reynie and Sticky a warning look. They nodded and tried to close the trunk as quietly as possible. "They aren't now anyway." "Good," Milligan said, picking up his duffel bag. "I'd hate to have to speak sternly to them again. It embarasses me to be so ineffective.

The last guest lecturer to honor the students with her presence had been Isabelle Lightwood. And the 'lecture' had consisted of a stern and humiliating warning that every female in a ten-mile radius should keep her grubby littler hands off Simon's hot bod. Fortunately, the tall, dark-haired man who strode to the front of the classroom looked unlikely to have any interest in Simon or his bod.

She could hear the wind in the trees, shaking the leaves, a warning whisper, Summer is over, summer is over.

What’s happening is a very stern lecture. You do not walk to your car at night, alone, ever again. It’s dangerous, and I won’t allow you to put yourself in harm’s way. If I find out you have, the lecture will become a spanking.” She couldn’t help it. She smiled. “Is that what you’re into?” “Kenna.” “No judgment, really.

A cold wind blew through the cemetery trees and Alex had to restrain a shiver. It felt like winter trying to hold on. It felt like a warning.

Jesus sternly warned them,

[The philistine] sternly segregates the ‘serious things in life’ – that is to say profession, business, wife and child — from its pleasures: and to the latter belongs more or less everything that has to do with culture. Therefore woe to an art that starts to take itself seriously and makes demands that touch upon his livelihood, his business and his habits, his philistine ‘serious things in life’ — he averts his eyes from such an art as though from something indecent, and with the air of a duenna he warns every defenceless virtue not to look.

They want to keep the government ‘out of our bedrooms.’ What are they talking about? I have to live in their society, remember. And I built my house, which means I built my own bedroom. The government told me how far apart the studs had to be in my bedroom wall, they dictated how thick the sheetrock had to be, they mandated how far apart the sheetrock screws had to be, they had policies on the configuration of those sheetrock screws, they have laws on the size of the windows and what kind of glass I can have in them, and there are stern legal warnings on the mattress tags. What do you mean, you want to keep the government out of our bedrooms? The president is probably contemplating, right this minute, the establishment of a bedroom czar.

Unless by some miracle, he got up from the chair and changed his life. Unless some store of character revealed itself, and with a little guidance from me, he returned in six months a new man. But even then, I thought, that change, that character, would have to be in him already. I was never going to manufacture it with a few stern warnings—God knows I’d tried—and pain forgets within the hour what it learns in an instant.

We must not eat dripping any more,’ warned Mma Makutsi from behind a healthy living magazine. ‘We must give up such things, Mma.’ This advice had been accompanied by a stern look in Mma Ramotswe’s direction. Mma Ramotswe had not taken that lying down. ‘Soon they will be telling us not to eat anything,’ she countered. ‘They will say that only air is good for you. Air and water.’ Mma Makutsi had not approved. ‘You cannot fight science, Mma. Science is telling us that many of the things we like to eat in this country are not good for us. They say that these things are making us too large.’ ‘I am not fighting science, Mma,’ replied Mma Ramotswe. ‘I am just saying that we have to have some things that we like, otherwise we shall be very unhappy. And if you are very unhappy you can die – we all know that.’ She allowed that to sink in before she continued. ‘There are many people who have been thinking a lot about science who are now late. It would have been better for them to spend more time being happy while they had the chance. That is well known, Mma – it is very well known.’ Mma Makutsi had become silent.

To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness, his iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting: - 'No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in all I do; and I warn you that you do not thwart me. Take care, for the sake of others if not for your own

I do not believe for a moment that the Scriptures are against wealth. But the warning to those who make wealth their pursuit is a stern reality. Wealth must be processed through a philosophy of life that is greater than wealth itself. If not, it shapes the mind for bitter disappointments.

Through the miracle of science, or divine intervention, a brick could be made soft, like Jell-O, and a blanket could be made rigid, like the laws regarding the speed limit, as interpreted by the cop who pulled me over last night. Come on, Officer Dogood—97 in a 30 mile an hour zone is not egregious. It’s not like I was speeding with no lights on while wearing a blindfold and blasting Lady Gaga from my radio to mask the sound of pounding fists from a kidnapping victim I had tied up in my trunk. Now that is something that would merit a stiff penalty, like a parking ticket, or maybe a stern warning. 


... she turned to him with her hands on her hips and said, “Take off your shoes and go stand in the corner.” “Excuse me?” “You heard me. I warned you not to push me, but you did. Now you’re going to get the lesson you asked for.” She looked sexy as hell, standing there all stern and irritated. “Sophie, are you going to…discipline me?

  Amid the Garden by the Tree of Life,   Remember what I warne thee, shun to taste,   And shun the bitter consequence: for know,   The day thou eat'st thereof, my sole command   Transgrest, inevitably thou shalt dye;   From that day mortal, and this happie State   Shalt loose, expell'd from hence into a World   Of woe and sorrow. Sternly

He thought Mrs. Darling was not sufficiently impressed, and he went on sternly, 'I warn you of this, mother, that unless this tie is round my neck we don't go out to dinner to-night, and if I don't go out to dinner to-night, I never go to the office again, and if I don't go to the office again, you and I starve, and our children will be flung into the streets.

In their ongoing war against evil capitalists, some vengeful Democrats have their eyes on banks, which they blame for making millions of loans that resulted in foreclosures and the 2008 financial crisis. Never mind that it was progressives who forced the government to make these loans to low-income borrowers with poor credit ratings through the Community Reinvestment Act and anti-discrimination laws. They promoted minority home ownership without regard to the owners’ ability to repay, and the result was catastrophic. But being a leftist means never having to say you’re sorry—just pass a misguided policy and blame everyone else when it predictably fails. Democratic Rep. Maxine Waters, emboldened by Democrats recapturing control of the House, issued a stern warning to bankers before the 2019 session began. “I have not forgotten” that “you foreclosed on our houses,” she said, and “had us sign on the line for junk and for mess that we could not afford. I’m going to do to you what you did to us.”62 How’s that for good governance—using her newfound power as incoming chairwoman of the House Financial Services Committee to punish bank executives for the disaster she and her fellow Democrats caused? Waters is also targeting corporations for allegedly excluding minorities and women from executive positions. Forming a new subcommittee on diversity and inclusion, she immediately held a hearing to discuss the importance of examining the systematic exclusion of women, people of color, persons with disabilities, gays, veterans, and other disadvantaged groups.63 Why concentrate on policies to stimulate economic growth and improve people’s standards of living when you can employ identity politics to demonize your opponents?

We knew Benevolence was a tender virtue and mother-like. If upright Rectitude and stern Justice were peculiarly masculine, Mercy had the gentleness and the persuasiveness of a feminine nature. We were warned against indulging in indiscriminate charity, without seasoning it with justice and rectitude. Masamuné expressed it well in his oft-quoted aphorism, “Rectitude carried to excess hardens into stiffness; Benevolence indulged beyond measure sinks into weakness.” Fortunately Mercy was not so rare as it was beautiful, for it is universally true that “the bravest are the tenderest, the loving are the daring.” Bushi no nasaké—the tenderness of a warrior—had a sound which appealed at once to whatever was noble in us; not that the mercy of a samurai was generically different from the mercy of any other being, but because it implied mercy where mercy was not a blind impulse, but where it recognized due regard to justice, and where mercy did not remain merely a certain state of mind, but where it was backed with power to save or kill.

I used to have this lecturer, whenever he's asked a question he has no idea about the answer, he would shout at us all in the class, hurl insults at us and storm out of the class angrily. He would go to his office or library to study more, after finding the answers to the questions asked, he would march into the classroom, telling us to listen carefully, warn us sternly and then "use brain to" answer the question he's asked. There is no question without an answer in any topic. We ask questions to know cos we learn everyday. The lecturer knew walking out on us angrily without answering our questions wasn't ideal thus he always came back to answer us after he's fully equipped himself. As for you religious fanatics, when you are asked any question sequel to your belief, admit it when you have no idea and go study more to equip yourselves instead of dismissing people's questions and calling them unbelievers If you are not ready to be questioned, then don't teach. Do not spread what you can't defend. To know the truth, one must be sceptical about things. Like Voltaire rightly said, those who can make us believe absurdities can make us commit atrocities.

A monk lived near the temple of Shiva. In the house opposite lived a prostitute. Noticing the large number of men who visited her, the monk decided to speak to her. ‘You are a great sinner,’ he said sternly. ‘You reveal your lack of respect for God every day and every night. Do you never stop to think about what will happen to you after your death?’ The poor woman was very shaken by what the monk said. She prayed to God out of genuine repentance, begging His forgiveness. She also asked the Almighty to help her to find another means of earning her living. But she could find no other work and, after going hungry for a week, she returned to prostitution. But each time she gave her body to a stranger, she would pray to the Lord for forgiveness. Annoyed that his advice had had no effect, the monk thought to himself: ‘From now on, I’m going to keep a count of the number of men who go into that house, until the day the sinner dies.’ And from that moment on, he did nothing but watch the comings and goings at the prostitute’s house, and for each man who went in, he added a stone to a pile of stones by his side. After some time, the monk again spoke to the prostitute and said: ‘You see that pile of stones? Each stone represents a mortal sin committed by you, despite all my warnings. I say to you once more: do not sin again!’ Seeing how her sins accumulated, the woman began to tremble. Returning home, she wept tears of real repentance and prayed to God: ‘O Lord, when will Your mercy free me from this wretched life?’ Her prayer was heard. That same day, the angel of death came to her house and carried her off. On God’s orders, the angel crossed the street and took the monk with him too. The prostitute’s soul went straight up to Heaven, while the devils bore the monk down into Hell. They passed each other on the way, and when the monk saw what was happening, he cried out: ‘Is this Your justice, O Lord? I spent my whole life in devotion and poverty and now I am carried off into Hell, while that prostitute, who lived all her life steeped in sin, is borne aloft up to Heaven!’ Hearing this, one of the angels replied: Angels are always just. You thought that God’s love meant judging the behaviour of your neighbour. While you filled your heart with the impurity of another’s sin, this woman prayed fervently day and night. Her soul is so light after all the tears she has shed that we can easily bear her up to Paradise. Your soul is so weighed down with stones it is too heavy to lift.

Soon after I arrived on the island I had a run-in with my son’s first grade teacher due to my irreverent PJ sense of humor. When Billy lost a baby tooth I arranged the traditional parentchild Tooth Fairy ritual. Only six years old, Billy already suspected I was really the Tooth Fairy and schemed to catch me in the act. With each lost tooth, he was getting harder and harder to trick. To defeat my precocious youngster I decided on a bold plan of action. When I tucked him in I made an exaggerated show of placing the tooth under his pillow. I conspicuously displayed his tooth between my thumb and forefinger and slid my hand slowly beneath his pillow. Unbeknownst to him, I hid a crumpled dollar bill in the palm of my hand. With a flourish I pretended to place the tooth under Billy’s pillow, but with expert parental sleight of hand, I kept the tooth and deposited the dollar bill instead. I issued a stern warning not to try and stay awake to see the fairy and left Billy’s room grinning slyly. I assured him I would guard against the tricky fairy creature. I knew Billy would not be able to resist checking under his pillow. Sure enough, only a few minutes later he burst from his room wide-eyed with excitement. He clutched a dollar bill tightly in his fist and bounced around the room, “Dad! Dad! The fairy took my tooth and left a dollar!” I said, “I know son. I used my ninja skills and caught that thieving fairy leaving your room. I trapped her in a plastic bag and put her in the freezer.” Billy was even more excited and begged to see the captured fairy. I opened the freezer and gave him a quick glimpse of a large shrimp I had wrapped in plastic. Viewed through multiple layers of wrap, the shrimp kind of looked like a frozen fairy. I stressed the magnitude of the occasion, “Tooth fairies are magical, elusive little things with their wings and all. I think we are the first family ever to capture one!” Billy was hopping all over the house and it took me quite awhile to finally calm him down and get him to sleep. The next day I got an unexpected phone call at work. My son’s teacher wanted to talk to me about Billy, “Now what?” I thought. When I arrived at the school, Billy’s teacher met me at the door. Once we settled into her office, she explained she was worried about him. Earlier that day, Billy told his first grade class his father had killed the tooth fairy and had her in a plastic bag in the freezer. He was very convincing. Some little kids started to cry. I explained the previous night’s fairy drama to the teacher. I was chuckling—she was not. She looked at me as if I had a giant booger hanging out of a nostril. Despite the look, I could tell she was attracted to me so I told her no thanks, I already had a girlfriend. Her sputtering red face made me uncomfortable and I quickly left. Later I swore Billy to secrecy about our fairy hunting activities. For dinner that evening, we breaded and fried up a couple dozen fairies and ate them with cocktail sauce and fava beans.

I think I understand now what you meant when you said I have to give up my mortal qualms. And I am willing to do that. But I want you to marry me.' 'Ah.' He sat down on the couch, looking stunned with lack of sleep. 'And so you came here in the middle of the night?' 'I hope that you love me,' I tried to sound the way Oriana did when she forbade us to do things- stern, but not unkind. 'And I will try to live as the Folk do. But you ought to marry me even if neither of those things were true, because otherwise I might ruin your fun.' 'My fun?' he echoed. Then he sounded worried. Then he sounded awake. 'Whatever game you are playing with Nicasia and Cardan,' I said. 'And with me. Tell Madoc we're to be wed and tell Jude about your real intentions or I will start shaping stories of my own.' ... I realised that Locke might teach me lessons, but he wasn't going to like what I did once I learned them. 'You promised-' he began, but I cut him off. 'Not a marriage of a year and a day, either,' I said. 'I want you to love me until you die.' He blinked. 'Don't you mean until you did? Because you're sure to.' I shook my head. 'You're going to live forever. If you love me, I will become a part of your story. I will live on in that.' He looked at me in a way he'd never done before, as though evaluating me all over again. Then he nodded. 'We will marry,' he said, holding up his hand. 'On three conditions. The first is that you will tell no one about us until the coronation of Prince Dain.' That seemed like a small thing, the waiting. 'And during that time, you must not renounce me, no matter what I say or do.' I know the nature of faerie bargains. I should have heard this as the warning that it was. Instead, I was only glad that two of his conditions seemed simple enough to fulfill. 'What else?' Be bold, be bold, but not too bold, lest that your heart's blood should run cold. 'Only this,' Locke said. 'Remember we don't love the way that you do.

The Peloponnesians arranged their ships in such a manner as to make the largest possible circle without leaving space to break through, turning their prows outwards and their sterns inwards; within the circle they placed the smaller craft which accompanied them, and five of their swiftest ships that they might be close at hand and row out at whatever point the enemy charged them. The Athenians ranged their ships in a single line and sailed round and round the Peloponnesian fleet, which they drove into a narrower and narrower space, almost touching as they passed, and leading the crews to suppose that they were on the point of charging. But they had been warned by Phormio not to begin until he gave the signal, for he was hoping that the enemy's ships, not having the steadiness of an army on land, would soon fall into disorder and run foul of one another; they would be embarrassed by the small craft, and if the usual morning breeze, for which he continued waiting as he sailed round them, came down from the gulf, they would not be able to keep still for a moment. He could attack whenever he pleased, because his ships were better sailers; and he knew that this would be the right time. When the breeze began to blow, the ships, which were by this time crowded into a narrow space and were distressed at once by the force of the wind and by the small craft which were knocking up against them, fell into confusion; ship dashed against ship, and they kept pushing one another away with long poles; there were cries of 'keep off' and noisy abuse, so that nothing could be heard either of the word of command or of the coxswains' giving the time; and the difficulty which unpractised rowers had in clearing the water in a heavy sea made the vessels disobedient to the helm.At that moment Phormio gave the signal; the Athenians, falling upon the enemy, began by sinking one of the admirals' vessels, and then wherever they went made havoc of them. (Book 2 Chapter 83.5-84.3)

Go on, ask me another question. I’m rather enjoying this game.” He cocked an eyebrow at her and, although he was certain it was pointless, he said, “Cheep cheep?” The herbalist brayed with laughter, and some of the werecats opened their mouths in what appeared to be toothy smiles. However, Shadowhunter seemed displeased, for she dug her claws into Eragon’s legs, making him wince. “Well,” said Angela, still laughing, “if you must have answers, that’s as good a story as any. Let’s see…Several years ago, when I was traveling along the edge of Du Weldenvarden, way out to the west, miles and miles from any city, town, or village, I happened upon Grimrr. At the time, he was only the leader of a small tribe of werecats, and he still had full use of both his paws. Anyway, I found him toying with a fledgling robin that had fallen out of its nest in a nearby tree. I wouldn’t have minded if he had just killed the bird and eaten it--that’s what cats are supposed to do, after all--but he was torturing the poor thing: pulling on its wings; nibbling its tail; letting it hop away, then knocking it over.” Angela wrinkled her nose with distaste. “I told him that he ought to stop, but he only growled and ignored me.” She fixed Eragon with a stern gaze. “I don’t like it when people ignore me. So, I took the bird away from him, and I wiggled my fingers and cast a spell, and for the next week, whenever he opened his mouth, he chirped like a songbird.” “He chirped?” Angela nodded, beaming with suppressed mirth. “I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. None of the other werecats would go anywhere near him for the whole week.” “No wonder he hates you.” “What of it? If you don’t make a few enemies every now and then, you’re a coward--or worse. Besides, it was worth it to see his reaction. Oh, he was angry!” Shadowhunter uttered a soft warning growl and tightened her claws again. Grimacing, Eragon said, “Maybe it would be best to change the subject?” “Mmm.” Before he could suggest a new topic, a loud scream rang out from somewhere in the middle of the camp. The cry echoed three times over the rows of tents before fading into silence. Eragon looked at Angela, and she at him, and then they both began to laugh.

3 INCIDENT IN THE ENGLISH CHANNEL Not long afterwards, a Belgian ferry, the Oudenbourg, was steaming its way from Ostende to Ramsgate. In the straits of Dover the duty officer noticed that half a mile south of its usual course there was something going on in the water. He could not be sure that there was no-one drowning there and so he ordered a change of course down to where the perturbance was taking place. Two hundred passengers on the windward side of the ship were shown a very strange spectacle: in some places a vertical jet of water shot out from the surface, and in some of those vertical jets there could be seen something like a black body thrown up with it; the surface of the sea for one or two hundred yards all around was tossing and seething wildly while, from the depths, a loud rattling and humming could be heard. "It was as if there was a small volcano erupting under the sea." As the Oudenbourg slowly approached the place an enormous wave rose about ten yards ahead of it and a terrible noise thundered out like an explosion. The entire ship was lifted violently and the deck was showered with a rain of water that was nearly boiling hot; and landing on the deck with the water was a strong black body which writhed and let out a sharp loud scream; it was a newt that had been injured and burnt. The captain ordered the ship full steam astern so that the ship would not steam straight into the middle of this turbulent Hell; but the water all around had also begun to erupt and the surface of the sea was strewn with pieces of dismembered newts. The ship was finally able to turn around and it fled northwards as fast as possible. Then there was a terrible explosion about six hundred yards to the stern and a gigantic column of water and steam, perhaps a hundred yards high, shot out of the sea. The Oudenbourg set course for Harwich and sent out a radio warning in all directions: "Attention all shipping, attention all shipping! Severe danger on Ostende-Ramsgate lane. Underwater explosion. Cause unknown. All shipping advised avoid area!" All this time the sea was thundering and boiling, almost as if military manoeuvres had been taking place under the water; but apart from the erupting water and steam there was nothing to see. From both Dover and Calais, destroyers and torpedo boats set out at full steam and squadrons of military aircraft flew to the site of the disturbance; but by the time they got there all they found was that the surface was discoloured with something like a yellow mud and covered with startled fish and newts that had been torn to pieces. At first it was thought that a mine in the channel must have exploded; but once the shores on both sides of the Straits of Dover had been ringed off with a chain of soldiers and the English prime-minister had, for the fourth time in the history of the world, interrupted his Saturday evening and hurried back to London, there were those who thought the incident must be of extremely serious international importance. The papers carried some highly alarming rumours, but, oddly enough, this time remained far from the truth; nobody had any idea that Europe, and the whole world with it, stood for a few days on the brink of a major war. It was only several years later that a member of the then British cabinet, Sir Thomas Mulberry, failed to be re-elected in a general election and published his memoirs setting out just what had actually happened; but by then, though, nobody was interested.

Determined to pre-empt further unrest, Oñate promptly sent a punitive force to wage ‘war without quarter’ against the Ácomans. After three days of fierce fighting, some 800 Indian men, women and children were dead, and almost 600 more had been taken prisoner. All the survivors over the age of twelve were condemned to slavery, and the children were given to the friars to be distributed as servants ‘in this kingdom or elsewhere.’ Every man over the age of twenty-five had one of his feet amputated, and two Hopis who had been at Ácoma during the battle lost a hand each and were sent back to their own people as a stern warning.

The faces we wear at the wheel could be used to make our driving safer. BMW has announced a three-year project with Loughborough University to determine your state of mind from the look on your face. Anger and disgust, for instance, can be read by computer software linked to embedded cameras. These expressions of “emotional stress” indicate your driving is compromised. The vehicle’s computer could then decide to take action. It could limit your speed or stop the car altogether. It could activate passive safety features or maybe a stern verbal warning: “Get a grip, you dick!

Two hours I’ve been searching for you boys. Having fun?” The captain was irked, but that didn’t forestall Galen. “Yes, sir,” he declared, with an impudent grin. Cannan almost rolled his eyes, then he dropped his volume. “The manor house, half an hour. Understood?” Steldor and Galen nodded, then Cannan’s eyes fell on me. “Shaselle, you should go back to the faire,” he decreed, a warning underlying his tone. I knew I should obey, and I certainly knew Cannan wasn’t likely to give me permission to remain with Steldor and Galen. Still, something was up, and I wanted to be a part of it. I stayed put, peering sheepishly up at him. “Shaselle,” he prompted. “I’d like to come,” I murmured, fearful of his reaction. “I’ll stay out of the way and won’t cause any trouble.” The captain crossed his arms. “No, there is too much at risk.” “Uncle, please! I may be able to help. Perhaps messages need to be delivered. You might all be under surveillance, but no one would be watching me.” “She already knows where we’re meeting,” Steldor pointed out, an argument that had not yet come to me. “So there’s not much point in trying to keep her away,” Galen finished, looking at me with understanding in his eyes. He had heard my confession about Saadi and probably wanted to show that he still trusted me. Cannan glared at his son by blood and his son by familiarity and responsibility. To my astonishment, he relented. “She can come, but one of you takes her when we split up. I don’t want her getting lost.” I bounced on the balls of my feet, exhilarated by the captain’s decision, then froze when his stern eyes fell on me. He did not see this as cause for celebration. “Half an hour,” he grumbled in reminder, walking away. I went with Steldor, and we surreptitiously departed the festival grounds, heading up the hillside and stopping a few times to talk with folks. I worried we would be late, but my cousin was not bothered. “Trust me, stealth is much more important here than punctuality,” he told me with a smirk. When the crowd began to thin, my heartbeat calmed, for we were making better progress. We passed through the Market District only to be slowed once more when we reached the thoroughfare. “We are late by now,” I harassed. “My father will either assume we’re dead or that I’m up to my usual tricks. If I’m not worried, you shouldn’t be.” His eyes glinted wickedly, suggesting he enjoyed needling his father, perhaps even to the same extent he enjoyed his popularity. I shrugged, keeping my silence the rest of the trek to Cannan’s manor house, where Steldor had grown up. He rapped four times on the door and we were ushered inside by Galen, who locked the door before heading through the kitchen and down a flight of stairs into a cellar. Only a single torch was lit in the small, clammy space, making it difficult to distinguish the faces of the men who had gathered. “Delayed?” Cannan asked with a touch of sarcasm. “Come now, Father. I had baggage,” Steldor shot back, and I shoved him, not appreciating his gibe.

Silhara lifted her captured hand to his mouth, tugged aside the glove and blew into the space between palm and covering.  Martise slumped in his arms and moaned her approval.  He did the same for her other hand before nestling them back under his arms and giving her a stern warning not to go anywhere near his groin. Swathed in layers of wool, fur and a hooded cloak, Martise hid her face in Silhara’s chest and laughed.  The sound sent pleasant vibrations through his torso.  “Better?” he asked. “Much.  You have a soft heart.” He frowned.  “No need to be insulting.”  He felt her laughter once more, followed by muffled words.

Kit, I’d like you to meet Caleb and Austin King. They are new students here this year, and as they’re already a few days late starting, I would like them to get their bearings this afternoon so they can catch up on classes tomorrow. I trust you will show them everything they need to know.” This last sentence was delivered with a stern note of warning in his voice that told me not to fuck around

Like the proverbial Pushmi-pullyu of Hugh Lofting’s Doctor Dolittle stories, Westminster feels itself pulled in two directions at once by two different ‘heads’. One minute it worries about losing powers to Brussels. The next minute it worries about losing powers to Edinburgh. One minute it talks about a referendum on whether the UK stays in the EU. The next minute it agrees to a referendum on whether Scotland should stay in the UK. Caught between the two centres of power it sometimes seems to be paralysed. When the Scots claim that they can stay in the EU after leaving the UK, the Prime Minister is the first to warn them that this may not be so. But when they hear his stern lectures to the EU and about a possible ‘Brexit’ (British exit), they may well feel that leaving the UK is actually the only way of ensuring that they stay in the EU. Paradoxically, the more UKIP (the United Kingdom Independence Party) calls for the UK to leave the EU, the more Scots may feel that their safest bet is to leave the UK, leaving UKIP presumably to campaign as the Former United Kingdom Independence Party, a situation which at the very least will give it an unfortunate acronym.

They live a random existence without a love of truth and without a code of personal honor. They can rationalize any act, any deed, because they believe the only law they must embrace is public law. Anything that won’t get them arrested—or get them a stern warning from their preacher—must be all right.

A statue of a lone Confederate general towers over the Clarksville town center. To hear my grandpa tell it the general was built looking sternly over the Black side of town as a warning regarding where the town's heart lies. As if there were any question.

Daylight slanted in through the bars making his eyes glint like polished steel. Motes of dust frenzied in his atmosphere as if drawing energy from the electric force of his presence. A thin ring of gold glinted in his left ear, and sharp cheekbones underscored an arrogant brow. He’d look stern but for his mouth, which was not so severe. It bowed with a fullness she might have called feminine if the rest of his face wasn’t so brutally cast. Mercy hadn’t realized she’d been staring at his lips, gripped with a queer sort of fascination until they parted and he spoke. “You were quite impressive back there.” “What?” Mercy shook her head dumbly. Had he just complimented her? Had they just been through the same scene? She’d never been less impressed with herself in her entire life. Would that she could have been like him. Smooth and unaffected. Infuriatingly self-assured. And yet…he’d only been that way after breaking the nose of the officer who'd struck her, and possibly his jaw. Lord but she’d never seen a man move like that before. “I listened to your deductions,” he explained. “From where you were hiding in the closet?” she quipped, rather unwisely. Something flickered in his eyes, and yet again she was left to guess if she’d angered or amused him. “From where I was hiding in the closet,” he said with a droll sigh as he shifted, seeming to find a more comfortable position for his bound hands. “You’re obviously cleverer than the detectives. How do you know so much about murder scenes?” Mercy warned herself not to preen. She stomped on the lush warmth threatening to spread from her chest at his encouragement, and thrust her nose in the air, perhaps a little too high. “I am one of only three female members of the Investigator Eddard Sharpe Society of Homicidal Mystery Analysis. As penned by the noted novelist, J. Francis Morgan, whom I suspect is a woman.” “Why do you suspect that?” His lip twitched, as if he also battled to suppress his own expression. “Because men tend to write women characters terribly, don’t they? But J. Francis Morgan is a master of character and often, the mystery is even solved by a woman rather than Detective Sharpe. His heroines are not needlessly weak or stupid or simpering. They’re strong. Dangerous. Powerful. Sometimes even villainous and complicated. That is good literature, I say. Because it’s true to life.” He’d ceased fighting his smile and allowed his lip to quirk up in a half-smile as he regarded her from beneath his dark brow. “Mathilde’s murderer now has one more person they’d do well to fear in you.” She leveled him a sour look. “Does that mean you fear me?” He tilted toward her. Suddenly—distressingly—grave. “You terrify me, Mercy Goode.

It is indifference that leaves people alone and allows them to go their own way. It is love, tender love, that warns them and raises the cry of alarm. The cry of “Fire! Fire!” at midnight might sometimes rudely, harshly, and unpleasantly startle a person out of his sleep, but who would complain if that cry was the means of saving his life? The words Except you repent, you will all likewise perish might at first seem stern and severe, but they are words of love, and they could be the means of delivering precious souls from hell.

You didn’t warn me that Jason was the world’s biggest jerk,” I said. “What was I supposed to do, say right in front of the president of the United States that his son’s a scumbag? Part of your training is to be ready for anything. If you can’t handle some thirteen-year-old punk, how can you be expected to handle a high-stakes criminal organization like SPYDER?” “I have handled SPYDER,” I reminded him. “Plenty of times. The people who work there might be evil, but they were still generally nicer to me than Jason Stern was.” “SPYDER tried to kill you,” Cyrus pointed out. “Yes, but that was business.

I had discovered the recipe in a book in the basement just last week, had devoured its advice and warnings about beauty, and instructions for potpourri, herbal masks, and beauty soaks. The stern Victorian words, capitalized and underscored: The Young Lady is advised to retire to the Privacy of her own toiletry with only the company of her Maid to assist in the Beauty Episode. When I had leafed through the yellowed, musty pages, a pressed pansy, as brittle and brown as a moth's wing, had zigzagged to the floor in a papery flurry.

wrong one is sought it will ensure that you cannot claim it,' Molly explained. Charlotte wondered how they were supposed to find the right wand when each one was packaged and out of sight, but Molly simply smirked at the girls’ bewildered expressions. Then, with a flick of her own wand, dozens of wands burst from their boxes and floated in the room around them. 'When you've found the right one, it will light up in your hand.' Molly gestured for the girls to go ahead. Each of the girls went wild, chuckling as they chased after a wand. Demi was the first to find hers and Molly gave her an impressed look that caused Margaret to scowl. Stef was trying to catch a long black, and gold trimmed wand, but it kept shooting out of her reach. Gerty was trying to grasp for any wand that she could, giggling when each one shot away from her. Charlotte did not attempt to take any of the wands; she concentrated on studying them, wondering which one would accept her. Her eyes then fell upon a plain oak wand that was floating alongside her. No one else seemed interested in it, but Charlotte stood on tiptoes and reached out for it, half expecting it to fly away. Instead, however, it remained in place. Her hand firmly gripped it, and immediately it glowed. She studied it carefully, noticing that close up it had orange patterns intricately carved into the wood; it wasn't plain at all. 'Great, we have two more,' Molly said, as she looked from Charlotte to Margaret who was also holding a glowing wand. Realizing that Charlotte had found hers at around the same time, Margaret gave her a stern look then walked over and stood next to Demi. Gerty was the next to find her wand, followed by Stef. Last up was Alice who was still chasing an elegant looking silver wand even though it kept whizzing away from her. 'That wand clearly does not want you!' Margaret exclaimed, and Demi and a few of the other girls giggled. 'Alice, some wands just aren't right for the person, regardless of their appearance,' Molly continued. Begrudgingly Alice stopped chasing the silver wand and reached out for the one that was closest, a straight mahogany one. It glowed as she touched it and her face lit with a huge smile. 'Right then, that's your wands sorted. It is of the greatest importance that you look after your wand. Never misplace it or put it in a situation where it may break. A wand is a witch’s most important item, and each of you must remember that. Also, it should go without saying that you are not to use these to perform harmful or distressing spells on each other, unless you want to face your first warning or worse, be expelled.' Charlotte looked down at the wand in her hand. It had stopped glowing, and this made its intricate patterning appear more discreet. She found herself wondering how something so small could be so powerful. Her mom must have had a wand at some point, and she wondered if she still had it, hidden away somewhere so that her dad would never find it. 'Next up are broomsticks.' Molly

You didn’t turn away. Even when you didn’t like what you saw in me. You kept looking.” Darlington’s gaze shifted and flickered like firelight. Gold and then amber. Bright and then shadowed. “Maybe I know a fellow monster when I see one.” It felt like a cold hand shoving her away. Like a warning. She wasn’t stupid enough to ignore it. “Maybe,” Alex whispered. She made herself turn, leave the ballroom, walk down that dark hall. She forced herself not to run. Maybe they were just two killers, cursed to endure each other’s company, two doomed spirits trying to find their way home. Maybe they were monsters who liked the feeling of another monster looking back at them. But enough people had abandoned them both. She wasn’t going to be the next.

Warren walked off then, with only this stern warning: “If Syreeta asks you about the blood on my pants, tell her I beat up a Native guy.” He left her then. He left her “without even saying goodbye.

The greatest fear of the American male is that he will be homosexual. Beginning with the stern warnings he recieves as a young boy about overly friendly men in public parks, through the adolescent shaming prompted by the slightest hint of effeminacy, to the suspicion provoked by an interest in artistic pursuits, he is conditioned to believe that homosexuality is incompatible with manhood. From his family to his friends, in his church and at his workplace, from the realm of the everyday experience to the popular culture surrounding him, the message is unambigious that there is absolutely nothing worse in the world than to be a sissy, a faggot, a queer.

I was beginning to take on the qualities of the patients I had been treating. I had started to notice the early warning signs of depression and anxiety. Sometimes I couldn’t get myself to eat full meals. At times I felt hopeless and totally isolated.

Jesus warned them sternly,

The tentacle around her neck squeezed tighter in warning. She made an annoyed noise but hushed at my stern look. “Lamb, we’ve agreed to do as I like to, remember? If I say I want to kneel down and worship this cunt, I will, and you won’t question it. Understand?

She folded her arms and fixed Celia with a stern look. Celia was the only person who ever got her stern look. ‘I’m older than you by three years, so stop trying to pull rank on me.’ ‘Just warning you off the big bad wolf.’ ‘Well, there’s no need,’ Neve started to say as she glanced over to the bar again to get a third look at Skirt’s infamous Editor-at-Large, who now had an arm looped round each of the blonde girls’ shoulders. ‘I’ve never seen a genuine cad in the flesh before. He should have a pencil moustache really, shouldn’t he?’ Celia looked at her sister with fond exasperation. ‘He’s not a cad like they have in those mouldy old books of yours, Neevy,’ she said witheringly. ‘He’s a twenty-first-century manwhore, bless him.’ ‘Yeah, he’s a tart with a heart of gold,’ Yuri added.

As South Carolina’s black labor force grew and reduced whites to minority status, their fears rose accordingly, especially given their perception of African people. Carolina’s first comprehensive slave code, passed in 1712, confirms this. After its preamble explains why slavery was an absolute necessity, it issued a stern warning about the dangerous presence of African people. The Negroes, it said, “are of barbarous, wild, savage natures,” wholly unfit to be governed under the enlightened law of the province. Therefore special laws were required “for the good regulating and ordering of them, as may restrain the disorders, rapines and inhumanity, to which they are naturally prone and inclined; and may also tend to the safety and security of the people of this Province and their estates.” Under these circumstances and to maintain order, it was necessary for all whites to cooperate and, if necessary, use violence to enforce the law.

Sleep well, Gonzo?” I ask. He grins and signs something to Pete. “What did he say?” I ask Pete. “You don’t want to know,” Pete says with a grimace. He glares at Gonzo. “Watch your manners, Karl,” he warns. His voice is stern, and Gonzo hangs his head. That’s the first time I’ve heard Pete call him by his real name. Pete stands up and goes to get a fork for one of the other boys. He’s still glaring at Gonzo, and now I’m dying to know what he said to earn such disfavor from Pete. “What did I miss?” I ask, looking back and forth between them. “Some adolescent humor,” Pete grumbles, looking at Gonzo from beneath lowered lashes. Pete reaches for a salt shaker for another of the boys. “Which wasn’t amusing.” Gonzo signs something quickly to Pete. “I know that was meant for me,” Pete says quietly, staring into Gonzo’s eyes. “But she’s sitting right here, and it’s rude to talk in front of her unless I can tell her what you said.” He grumbles something and then says, “And I wouldn’t repeat what you just said for a million dollars.” He holds up his hands as though he’s saying what the fuck. “You don’t talk like that in front of girls, dude.” He jabs a fork at Gonzo. “When we’re alone, you can talk all the shit you want. And it might even be funny.” Gonzo taps me on the shoulder so I look at him. He signs something with his fist close to his chest. The color on his cheeks is high. “He said sorry,” Pete grumbles. Gonzo signs something else and then blinks his eyes at me, batting his thick lashes. “He wants to know if you forgive him.” “I’ll think about it,” I say. I still don’t know what he said, so I don’t know why I should be offended. But Pete’s so serious that I feel like I need to play along. “Gonzo, go ahead and get suctioned or whatever it is you do so we can be ready for the first activity,” Pete says. Gonzo grins and signs something. But he leaves. Pete shakes his head. More boy humor?

He could feel his heart racing in his chest. She was asking a lot of him. Queen had paid him handsomely and his brother too. Money that he would have to pay back if he abandoned the mission. This was exactly what Gunplay was trying to warn him about. Trigga knew he had to stand his ground, be stern with her.

Jane leaned her head against a rough bit of brickwork. She couldn’t say that she hadn’t been warned. She’d known what Jack was before they began working together. But she hadn’t known all the other things he was: the kindness, the fundamental decency of him. Beneath the layer of deliberate devil-may-care, his moral code was as stern as hers, and he was, she realized, a great deal better at seeing to the needs of others. She tried to remember the frustrating bits, the moments when they had clashed. But all she could remember was Jack adapting to her change of plans. Jack taking charge when her plan had failed. Jack challenging her, making her think more carefully, and then, when she’d charted their course, covering her back without question. Caring for her. When she was with him, she felt the weight of being the Pink Carnation lift off her shoulders. She didn’t have to be perfect. She didn’t have to have all the answers. Because Jack was there with her.

Bronte ends with a warning, " says Mum, and goes to the last verses. "Then did I check the tear of useless passion -- Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning with to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine. "And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?" "That's the danger of grieving, " she says. "The dead can become more real to you than the living.

Why did you come back?” she asked weakly. He stared directly into her eyes. “You know why.” Before Catherine could stop herself, her gaze dropped to the firm contours of his mouth. “Cat … we have to talk about what happened.” “I don’t know what you mean.” He inclined his head slightly. “Would you like me to remind you?” “No, no…” She shook her head for emphasis. “No.” His lips twitched. “One ‘no’ is enough, darling.” Darling? Filled with anxiety, Catherine fought to keep her voice steady. “I thought I made it clear that I wanted to ignore what happened.” “And you expect that will make it go away?” “Yes, that’s what one does with mistakes,” she said with difficulty. “One sets them aside and moves on.” “Really?” Leo asked innocently. “My mistakes are usually so enjoyable that I tend to repeat them.” Catherine wondered what was wrong with her that she was tempted to smile. “This one will not be repeated.” “Ah, there’s the governess voice. All stern and disapproving. It makes me feel like a naughty schoolboy.” One of his hands lifted to caress the edge of her jaw. Her body raced with conflicting impulses, her skin craving his touch, her instincts warning her to move away from him. The result was a kind of stunned immobility, every muscle drawing up taut. “If you don’t leave my room this instant,” she heard herself say, “I’ll make a scene.” “Marks, there is nothing in the world I would enjoy more than watching you make a scene. In fact, I’ll help you. How shall we start?

For those who need really stern warning about this: one psychiatrist, Dr. Paul Bousfeld, holds that the sure sign of the incurable egotist is that he never allows for the actual amount of time any given activity will take. Firmly, though unconsciously, believing that the world revolves around him, certain of his magical power to arrest the progress of the sun and the moon, he goes through life astonished at the refractoriness of Time in not meeting him half-way. He is always late to appointments, behind in his obligations, constantly assuming more work or accepting more invitations than he could keep if he were twins. He either learns the error of his ways or comes to a bad end.

A short time later, Haganah officers came to take the village from the Irgun. One officer remarked, “All of the killed, with very few exceptions, were old men, women, or children.” He noted, “The dead we found were all unjust victims and none of them had died with a weapon in their hands.” Another Haganah commander sneered, “You are swine,” and ordered his men to surround the militiamen. A tense standoff ensued as the Haganah commanders debated about forcibly disarming the dissidents and shooting them if they refused. At last, the Haganah commander ordered the Irgun to clean the village and bury the dead. They carried the bodies to a rock quarry and set them ablaze. “It was a lovely spring day,” the Haganah commander recorded. “The almond trees were in bloom, the flowers were out, and everywhere there was the stench of the dead, the thick smell of blood, and the terrible odor of the corpses burning in the quarry.”8 The next day, the Haganah commander issued a communiqué: “For a full day Etzel [Irgun] and Lechi [Stern] soldiers stood and slaughtered men, women, and children—not in the course of the operation, but in a premeditated act which had as its intention slaughter and murder only. They also took spoils, and when they finished their work, they fled.” Irgun and Stern leaders denied that any deliberate killings of civilians occurred at Deir Yassin. Menachem Begin noted that they had set up a loudspeaker at the entrance of the village, warning civilians to leave: “By giving this humane warning, our fighters threw away the element of complete surprise, and thus increased their own risk in the ensuing battle. A substantial number of the inhabitants obeyed the warning and they were unhurt. A few did not leave their stone houses—perhaps because of the confusion. The fire of the enemy was murderous—to which the number of our casualties bears elegant testimony. Our men were compelled to fight for every house; to overcome the enemy they used large numbers of hand grenades. And the civilians who had disregarded our warnings suffered inevitable casualties.”9 The Jewish Agency did not accept Begin’s explanation and immediately condemned the killings. Regardless of which view was correct, the events at Deir Yassin would have a more far-reaching impact than anyone could have imagined.

In Boat 6, Margaret Brown had doffed her sables to free her up for rowing. She had encouraged the other women to row as well, defying the quartermaster who railed at her from the stern. But Robert Hichens had chosen the wrong group of women to bully. In addition to the forceful Mrs. Brown, the plucky Mrs. Candee, and the voluble Berthe Mayné, there were two English suffragettes on board, Elsie Bowerman and her mother, Edith Chibnall. Both were active members of Sylvia Pankhurst’s Women’s Social and Political Union, the most militant of Britain’s votes-for-women organizations. Edith was one of ten women who had accompanied Mrs. Pankhurst on a 1910 deputation to Parliament that had resulted in arrests after a scuffle with police. She had also donated a banner for a Hyde Park demonstration that read “Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.” A full-scale rebellion against one male tyrant was soon under way in Boat 6. The women tried to taunt the quartermaster into joining them at the oars, but Hichens refused, preferring to stand at the tiller shouting out rowing instructions and doom-filled warnings that they could be lost for days with no food or water. Eventually Boat 16 came near and the two lifeboats tied up together. Margaret Brown spotted a chilled, thinly clad stoker in the adjoining boat and after he jumped over into Boat 6 to help with the rowing, she wrapped him in her sables, tying the tails around his ankles. She then handed him an oar and instructed Boat 16 to cut them loose so they could row to keep warm. Howling curses in protest, Hichens moved to block this but an enraged Mrs. Brown rose up and threatened to throw him overboard. The fur-enveloped stoker reproached Hichens for his foul language in the broadest of Cockney accents: “Soy, don’t you know you are talking to a loidy!

29Then He touched their eyes, saying, “According to your faith, let it be done for you.” 30And their eyes were opened. And Yeshua warned them sternly, “See that no one knows.” 31But they went out and spread the news about Him all around that region.

Lewis!” The boy jumped and spun around. “What?” “Keep that animal away from my crates.” Tori drew in a breath and deliberately calmed her voice. “Have him play on the other side of you, dear, where there’s more open space for him to explore. And if you think he might need to . . . um . . . water the flowers, let me know at once and we’ll—” Masculine laughter cut off her words. “Water the flowers?” Ben tipped his head back and laughed all the harder. It didn’t take more than a heartbeat for Lewis to join him. “Your ma’s sure got a way with words.” The freighter wiped at his eyes, and for the first time Tori found herself envious. Envious of his unfettered emotion. She used to laugh like that, so hard tears leaked from her eyes. She missed it. Missed the innocent girl who saw the world as full of possibilities instead of threats. Lewis picked Hercules up and dutifully moved him to the other side of his sprawled legs to keep the pup away from the crates. “Aw, she just don’t like talkin’ about—” “Lewis.” Tori gave him a stern look, her warning tone eliciting a pair of irritating male grins. “Womenfolk are like that,” Ben said, turning back to face the road, but not before he winked conspiratorially at her son. “My ma used to say, ‘answerin’ the call of nature.’ And she always blushed when she said it.” He aimed a sideways glance at Tori, and her cheeks immediately heated. Traitorous things. “Well, I don’t think Hercules will need to water the flowers any time soon.” Lewis snickered. “He watered the porch steps at Sarah’s house before we left.” Tori

A leper* came to him [and kneeling down] begged him and said, “If you wish, you can make me clean.”   41  Moved with pity, he stretched out his hand, touched him, and said to him, “I do will it. Be made clean.”p   42  The leprosy left him immediately, and he was made clean.q   43  Then, warning him sternly, he dismissed him at once.   44  Then he said to him, “See that you tell no one anything, but go, show yourself to the priest and offer for your cleansing what Moses prescribed; that will be proof for them.”r

What are we supposed to be doing?” Lonen whispered, though High Priestess Febe had left the room. “Meditating,” she hissed back. “Yes, I heard that part. What in Arill does that mean?” “Like… praying to your goddess. Silently,” she emphasized. He was quiet for a few breaths, no more. “Now what?” She tried to suppress the laugh, but failed so it choked out in a most unladylike sound. Lonen flashed a grin at her and she shook her head. “Keep doing it. And be quiet—she could come back at any time.” “Why would I keep doing something I already did?” “You’re supposed to be contemplating!” She tried to sound stern, but his complaints so closely echoed hers through the years that she couldn’t manage it. “Contemplate what?” he groused. “I already made the decision about the step I’m about to take. There’s no sense revisiting it.” “Then pretend. It won’t be that much longer.” He stayed quiet for a bit more, though he shifted restlessly, looking around the room and studying the various representations of the moons, looking at her from time to time. That insatiable curiosity of his built, feeding into her sgath, slowly intensifying. She was so keenly aware of him, she knew he’d speak the moment before he did. “You don’t mind?” he asked. “You talking when we’re supposed to be meditating?” “Do you always do what the temple tells you to do?” “Hardly ever,” she admitted. “But appearances are critical. Especially now.” He sighed and was quiet for a while. But his question remained between them, tugging at her like Chuffta pulling her braids when he wanted attention. And it might be some time before Febe returned. She reached out with her sgath to keep tabs on the high priestess, who was indeed still in one of the inner sanctums, no doubt also meditating and preparing herself for the ritual. “We have a little time and I’ll give us warning,” she relented. “Do I mind what?” “Not having a special dress, a big celebration. I don’t have a beah for you.” “What is a beah ?” “A Destrye gifts his bride with a beah and she wears it as a symbol of their marriage. I thought I’d have time to find something to stand in place of it until I can give you a proper one. And that we’d have time to change clothes.” “You look fine—I told you before.” “I look like a Báran,” he grumped, then glared, annoyance sparking when she giggled. “It’s not funny.” “Báran clothes look good on you,” she soothed, much as she would Chuffta’s offended dignity. Perhaps males of all species were the same. “Hey!” She ignored Chuffta’s indignant response. Lonen did look appealing in the silk pants and short-sleeved shirt, even though her sgath mainly showed her his exuberant masculine presence. “Well, you deserve something better than that robe,” he replied. “And more than this hasty ceremony. Arill knows, Natly went on enough about the details of planning…” He trailed off, chagrin coloring his thoughts. “Yeah,” she drawled. “Maybe better to not bring up your fiancée during our actual wedding ceremony.” “Former fiancée,” he corrected. “Really not even that. And this isn’t the ceremony yet—this is waiting around for it to start. My knees are getting sore.” “And here I thought you were the big, bad warrior.” “I am. Big, bad warriors don’t kneel. We charge about, swinging our weapons.” She laughed, shaking her head at him. That good humor of his flickered bright, charming her, banishing his perpetual anger to the shadowed corners of his aura. In the back of her mind, Febe moved. “She’s coming back. Not much longer. Try to school your thoughts.

As his special train hauled into Rome's suburbs the next afternoon, May 3, he marshalled his private staff and warned them sternly not to burst out laughing at the sight of a diminutive figure kneeling on the platform, weighed down with gold braid: for that was the King of Italy, and he was not kneeling – that was his full height.

He made one last attempt, his voice dark and stern. “Go. Now. Before I use you in ways you don’t want to be used.” She swept a gaze over him, biting her bottom lip. “It’s not being used if I want it, too.” He gave up. It was over. Brute lust overruled his every emotion, intention, and thought. She’d made her bed, and he meant to take her six different ways on it. Tomorrow the servants could collect what pieces remained. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

He studied everything on the air, “listened to radio until it was coming out of my ears, getting the feel of it.” This was a brand new ball game: “it wouldn’t do any good to roll your eyes or clap your hands” to capture an audience. He decided to rope in the studio audience and let them laugh—on microphone—at his gags. This was unknown territory: before Cantor, studio audiences were sternly warned to make no noise of any kind while the shows were on the air. No laughter was permitted: even a muffled cough would bring an usher with a finger to his lips. This policy changed forever when Cantor and announcer Jimmy Wallington went down into the audience, snatched the hats off their wives’ heads, and chased each other around the stage while the audience shrieked hysterically. After the broadcast, John Reber of J. Walter Thompson called with the excited news that Cantor had “just invented audience participation.

In today’s world, many do not see the Prophet as a mercy. They see in him (perhaps as Ka‘b first did) only a sword. Some of these claim Islam as their religion and seek to make themselves into martyrs when what the Qur’an actually calls for is witnesses. Contemporary “jihadist” ideologies falsify the past, caricature the Prophet, and mock the Qur’an. They seem to forget that the Book names God as the Merciful, the Compassionate. But the Qur’an also makes it clear that God’s mercy is all-encompassing: My Mercy encompasses all things (Q 7:156). The name, al-Rahman, the Merciful, is more frequently used than any other as proxy for God’s personal name, Allah, in the Qur’an. For these (and other) reasons, classical Islamic theology sometimes refers to “the Merciful” as God’s comprehensive name (ism jam‘)—in contradistinction to the name of His Essence (ism dhat). The idea, in a manner of speaking, is that God’s mercy encompasses even God Himself. So-called “jihadists” deny with their deeds that the Prophet was a merciful man sent by a merciful God. It is no coincidence that all such groups are vehemently anti-Sufi. They condemn virtually all the doctrines and practices outlined in this essay, thoughts and deeds that have made life meaningful for millions of West Africans. Curiously, most so-called “fundamentalists” even condemn the routine recitation of God’s names, dhikr—like al-Rahman, a staple of many litanies. One wonders whether these “fundamentalists” even read the Qur’an! For it contains stern warnings for those who abandon dhikr, thereby forgetting that God is Merciful, and thus becoming merciless devils themselves: And whoever is blind to remembrance of the Merciful, We appoint for him a devil as a constant companion. And indeed the devils avert them from the path while they think themselves guided (Q 43:36–37).

Sméagol,’ he said, ‘I will trust you once more. Indeed it seems that I must do so, and that it is my fate to receive help from you, where I least looked for it, and your fate to help me whom you long pursued with evil purpose. So far you have deserved well of me and have kept your promise truly. Truly, I say and mean,’ he added with a glance at Sam, ‘for twice now we have been in your power, and you have done no harm to us. Nor have you tried to take from me what you once sought. May the third time prove the best! But I warn you, Sméagol, you are in danger.’ ‘Yes, yes, master!’ said Gollum. ‘Dreadful danger! Sméagol’s bones shake to think of it, but he doesn’t run away. He must help nice master.’ ‘I did not mean the danger that we all share,’ said Frodo. ‘I mean a danger to yourself alone. You swore a promise by what you call the Precious. Remember that! It will hold you to it; but it will seek a way to twist it to your own undoing. Already you are being twisted. You revealed yourself to me just now, foolishly. Give it back to Sméagol you said. Do not say that again! Do not let that thought grow in you! You will never get it back. But the desire of it may betray you to a bitter end. You will never get it back. In the last need, Sméagol, I should put on the Precious; and the Precious mastered you long ago. If I, wearing it, were to command you, you would obey, even if it were to leap from a precipice or to cast yourself into the fire. And such would be my command. So have a care, Sméagol!’ Sam looked at his master with approval, but also with surprise: there was a look in his face and a tone in his voice that he had not known before. It had always been a notion of his that the kindness of dear Mr. Frodo was of such a high degree that it must imply a fair measure of blindness. Of course, he also firmly held the incompatible belief that Mr. Frodo was the wisest person in the world (with the possible exception of Old Mr. Bilbo and of Gandalf). Gollum in his own way, and with much more excuse as his acquaintance was much briefer, may have made a similar mistake, confusing kindness and blindness. At any rate this speech abashed and terrified him. He grovelled on the ground and could speak no clear words but nice master. Frodo waited patiently for a while, then he spoke again less sternly. ‘Come now, Gollum or Sméagol if you wish, tell me of this other way, and show me, if you can, what hope there is in it, enough to justify me in turning aside from my plain path. I am in haste.

She could hear the blood rushing in her ears. “I think I’m going to pass out.” “Alex, tell me five things you see in your room.” “What?” “Just do it.” “I … My desk. A chair. The blue tulle on Mercy’s bed. My Flaming June poster. Those sticky stars someone put up on the ceiling.” “Okay, now four things you can touch.” “Dawes—” “Do it.” “We have to warn the others—” “Just do it, Virgil.” Dawes had never called her that. Alex managed a shaking breath. “Okay … the bed frame. It’s smooth. Cold wood. The rug—kind of soft and nubbly. There’s glitter in it. Maybe from Halloween.” “What else?” “My tank top—cotton, I think.” She reached up and touched the dried roses on Mercy’s bedside table. “Dry flowers, like tissue paper.” “Now three things you hear.” “I know what you’re doing.” “Then do it.” Alex drew another long breath in through her nose. “The flowers rustle when I touch them. Someone’s singing down the hall. My own fucking heart pounding in my chest.” She rubbed a hand over her face, feeling some of her terror recede. “Thanks, Dawes.

cill,’ she said. ‘And that’s the warning.’ She pointed to a painted line at our feet. ‘You’ve got to make sure the boat is far enough in front of that line not to get the stern stuck on the cill as the water goes down or you’ll end up with the boat at forty-five degrees and water pouring in at the front. Not nice if it goes wrong. People have died.