Suspicious Partner Quotes

Some survivors can be wary of most people, yet blinded by compassion toward fellow survivors or others who suffer — or who pretend to suffer, or exaggerate their sufferings, in order to take advantage of the survivor. Some survivors overidentify with other survivors, not realizing that even if someone was traumatized or suffers in a similar way, it doesn’t necessarily mean that person is honest. Being either overly suspicious or overly trusting can create problems with a partner who is able to judge the sincerity of others more realistically.

Imagine this: A world where the quality of your life is not determined by how much money you have. You do not have to sell your labour to survive. Labour is not tied to capitalism, profit or wage. Borders do not exist; we are free to move without consequence. The nuclear family does not exist; children are raised collectively; reproduction takes on new meanings. In this world, the way we carry out dull domestic labour is transformed and nobody is forced to rely on their partner economically to survive. The principles of transformative justice are used to rectify harm. Critical and comprehensive sex education exists for all from an early age. We are liberated from the gender binary’s strangling grip and the demands it places on our bodies. Sex work does not exist because work does not exist. Education and transport are free, from cradle to grave. We are forced to reckon with and rectify histories of imperialism, colonial exploitation, and warfare collectively. We have freedom to, not just freedom from. Specialist mental health services and community care are integral to our societies. There is no “state” as we know it; nobody dies in “suspicious circumstances” at its hands; no person has to navigate sexism, racism, ableism or homophobia to survive. Detention centres do not exist. Prisons do not exist, nor do the police. The military and their weapons are disbanded across nations. Resources are reorganised to adequately address climate catastrophe. No person is without a home or loving community. We love one another, without possession or exploitation or extraction. We all have enough to eat well due to redistribution of wealth and resource. We all have the means and the environment to make art, if we so wish. All cultural gatekeepers are destroyed. Now imagine this vision not as utopian, but as something well within our reach.

The abuse experience might have made her suspicious of anyone wanting to help and support her. Her abusive partner probably twisted the concept of trust in such a way as to shatter her willingness to trust others. It might be hard for her to fathom that an anchor has no agenda except to care about her. However, it is the very process of learning to trust her anchor which can help an abused woman. Through that relationship she can be reminded what real trust is, who is trustworthy, and how to trust someone again or for the first time.

I mean, can we take a second to talk about the impact that wizards had on my self-esteem and self-love? ... For whatever reason, we’ve decided as a Western culture that the only time a person assigned male at birth may dare to be effeminate is if they’re magical. Gandalf the Grey is the best example. He is a weird outcast from most of society who runs around wearing flowy robes and recruiting his friends to help him destroy a terrible, awful, simply atrocious ring. He suspiciously has no sexual partners or desire to date women, loves crystals and sparkly magic, and carries around a long staff with a big ol’ shiny rock on top.

Extreme jealousy and extreme possessiveness always spell danger. If you are subjected to constant accusations, constant watching, spying, interrogation, or overreactions to such minor infractions as being late—be on your guard. If you talk to another man at a party and your partner overreacts with anger far out of proportion to the event, beware. This type of suspiciousness is a signal that the possibility of physical violence exists. Threats of violence, even if violence has not occurred before, should always be taken seriously. Plans for getting even, for revenge, and attempts to control you through threats of brute force are a clear sign that you need to have a backup plan for yourself.

What are your terms?” he asked, and he made a final effort to tip the balance of power into her hands and out of his by adding, “I’m scarcely in a position to argue.” Elizabeth hesitated and then slowly began stating her terms: “I want to be allowed to look after Havenhurst without interference or criticism.” “Done,” he agreed with alacrity while relief and delight built apace in him. “And I’d like a stipulated amount set aside for that and given to me once each year. In return, the estate, once I’ve arranged for irrigation, will repay your loan with interest.” “Agreed,” Ian said smoothly. Elizabeth hesitated, wondering if he could afford it, half-embarrassed that she’d mentioned it without knowing more about his circumstances. He’d said last night that he’d accepted the title but nothing else. “In return,” she amended fairly, “I will endeavor to keep costs at an absolute minimum.” He grinned. “Never vacillate when you’ve already stipulated your terms and won a concession-it gives your opponent a subtle advantage in the next round.” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed suspiciously; he was agreeing to everything, and much too easily. “And I think,” she announced decisively, “I want all this written down, witnessed, and made part of the original agreement.” Ian’s eyes widened, a wry, admiring smile tugging at his lips as he nodded his consent. There was a roomful of witnesses in the next room, including her uncle, who’d signed the original agreement, and a vicar who could witness it. He decided it was wise to proceed now, when she was in the mood, rather than scruple over who knew about it. “With you as a partner a few years ago,” he joked as he guided her from the room, “God knows how far I might have gone.” Despite his tone and the fact that he’d been on her side during the negotiations, he was nevertheless impressed with the sheer daring of her requests.

to look around. At first sight, the apartment was perfectly ordinary. He made a quick circuit of the living room, kitchenette, bathroom, and bedroom. The place was tidy enough, but with a few items strewn here and there, the sort of things that might be left lying around by a busy person—a magazine, a half-finished crossword puzzle, a book left open on a night table. Abby had the usual appliances—an old stove and a humming refrigerator, a microwave oven with an unpronounceable brand name, a thirteen-inch TV on a cheap stand, a boom box near a modest collection of CDs. There were clothes in her bedroom closet and silverware, plates, and pots and pans in her kitchen cabinets. He began to wonder if he’d been unduly suspicious. Maybe Abby Hollister was who she said she was, after all. And he’d taken a considerable risk coming here. If he was caught inside her apartment, all his plans for the evening would be scotched. He would end up in a holding cell facing charges that would send him back to prison for parole violation. All because he’d gotten a bug up his ass about some woman he hardly knew, a stranger who didn’t mean anything. He decided he’d better get the hell out. He was retracing his steps through the living room when he glanced at the magazine tossed on the sofa. Something about it seemed wrong. He moved closer and took a better look. It was People, and the cover showed two celebrities whose recent marriage had already ended in divorce. But on the cover the stars were smiling over a caption that read, Love At Last. He picked up the magazine and studied it in the trickle of light through the filmy curtains. The date was September of last year. He put it down and looked at the end tables flanking the sofa. For the first time he noticed a patina of dust on their surfaces. The apartment hadn’t been cleaned in some time. He went into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. It seemed well stocked, but when he opened the carton of milk and sniffed, he discovered water inside—which was just as well, since the milk’s expiration period had ended around the time that the People cover story had been new. Water in the milk carton. Out-of-date magazine on the sofa. Dust everywhere, even coating the kitchen counters. Abby didn’t live here. Nobody did. This apartment was a sham, a shell. It was a dummy address, like the dummy corporations his partner had set up when establishing the overseas bank accounts. It could pass inspection if somebody came to visit, assuming the visitor didn’t look too closely, but it wasn’t meant to be used. Now that he thought about it, the apartment was remarkable for what

Cade quickly checked his cell phone. Of course Vaughn, with his FBI superpowers of perception, had to comment. “Got another offer on the table that expires soon?” he asked. “Go away.” Vaughn grinned. “You’re quite circumspect about this situation with Brooke. I find that very intriguing, don’t you, Hux?” No reply. “Hux?” Vaughn looked to his right, where Huxley was reading something on his phone. With an unmistakable smile, he tucked his phone into the pocket of his impeccably tailored Ralph Lauren suit, and then noticed Cade and Vaughn looking at him. “Sorry. What were we talking about?” “Just giving Cade crap about a certain sexy general counsel. But never mind that.” Vaughn pointed suspiciously. “What’s going on here, with the phone and the sneaky smile?” He studied his partner. “Don’t tell me you actually have a hot date tonight.” “Okay, I won’t tell you.” Huxley took a sip of his beer, deliberately leaving them hanging. “Look at you,” Cade said. “With who?” “Addison.” “Addison? Who’s—” It took Vaughn a second, then his mouth fell open. “Agent Simms? When did this happen?” Huxley swirled his glass, looking quite coy. “Things have been percolating for a while. But they shifted into high gear after our fake date at Sogna.” Vaughn threw out his hands in exasperation. “First Morgan, now you. Plus McCall’s getting married next month, and Pallas is having a kid. Purposely. Am I the only one not getting laid as part of an FBI sting operation?” Huxley pretended to muse over this. “Maybe you should take some time. Figure out what’s gone wrong with your mojo these days.” “My mojo is perfectly fine,” Vaughn assured him. Cade was curious. “Is it serious?” Huxley smiled. “Yeah. I think so.” Vaughn scoffed at this. “Come on. You’ve only been seeing her for, what, a month?” Huxley shrugged. “I like her. She likes me. It’s not that complicated.” Cade and Vaughn threw each other looks. Right. “Amateur,” Vaughn said, with a conspiratorial grin. “Amateur, huh? I’ll be sure to ask Addison tonight if she agrees with that assessment.” And if his confident smile was any indication, Agent Seth Huxley wasn’t worried about the answer to that one bit.

You are overheated, my lady,” her new partner said severely. “It will be a pleasure to escort you outside for fresh air.” She opened her mouth to protest such forwardness, but then the man opened his mouth slightly so that she could glimpse his fangs. “Clayton cannot touch you here, no matter how much he may pretend otherwise.” Blinking in astonishment, she nodded and allowed him to lead her off the dance floor. Clayton glared at the vampire with such malice that she was reassured this was an ally. Her fear reduced, she followed him out the French doors. Once outside, the vampire frowned at her and shook his head. “Honestly, for a countess, you are shockingly inept at duplicity.” “And who are you?” she asked faintly. The vampire bowed. “I am Aldric Cadell, Viscount Thornton and Lord of Blackpool. I have come to assist with the war.” Cassandra curtsied. “Rafael and I are grateful for your assistance.” Rafe burst out the French doors, eyeing Blackpool suspiciously. “I would greatly appreciate it if you would inform me before absconding with my fiancée.” “I was not absconding with her,” Blackpool replied calmly. “I was rescuing her from Edmondson. Did you not notice his odious presence?” Rafe snarled. “I did. But I should have gotten her away from him. It is my duty to protect her.” “You couldn’t have left the dance without shaming yourself and her as well,” Blackpool retorted. “As your ally, it is my duty to provide aid when it is required.” Rafe rubbed his temples. “You are right. I apologize, and thank you for taking her away from our enemy.

Why did I lie? I hadn’t planned on lying. When that stranger handed me the journal and looked at me with his big, desperate eyes, I wasn’t planning anything. I intended to give it to whoever asked for it. But when I was standing there in front of Officer Keating and his suspicious-looking partner, I didn’t. It wasn’t some elaborate plan or a scheme. I just didn’t open my mouth. It was like my mind decided without me that I should hang on to it.

WARM SALT "A grad student investigates the tragic death of a diving partner and stumbles on a crime ring in Eshleman's debut thriller. An often engaging action novel, bolstered by its exotic setting and realistic protagonist." - Kirkus Reviews ICE BRINE "A diving pro and part owner of a Canadian undersea salvage company tangles with international criminals and multiple intelligence agencies. An exhilarating thriller; Clive Cussler fans will find that Peter Case floats their boat." - Kirkus Reviews CASE CLOSED "In Eshleman's 1980s-set novel, the third in his Peter Case trilogy, Case and sidekick Hal McDonald reluctantly abandon their marine salvage business on Vancouver Island to investigate a series of suspicious deaths. A quiet revenge story that morphs into a high-impact tale." - Kirkus Reviews

But even the biggest Wall Street banks were at a disadvantage when they went up against the traders at Koch Industries, British Petroleum, or Amoco. The Wall Street banks didn’t have access to inside information. Goldman Sachs didn’t own refineries or pipelines and couldn’t get a sneak peek into where markets were headed. The banks had to resort to second-rate information that was publicly available, like government reports on monthly energy supplies. It was a losing proposition. In the mid-1990s, the Wall Street banks came to Koch Industries, asking for help. “We kept getting approached by banks, who say, ‘Hey, Koch. You guys are so good at this physical stuff, we’d like to partner with you,’ ” recalled a former senior Koch executive who was heavily involved in trading operations. The banks came to Koch with the same pitch: the banks would handle “all this financial stuff,” while Koch handled the physical end of trading and shared information from its operations. If Koch executives were flattered by the attention from Wall Street, they didn’t show it for long. “We kind of got curious—or, suspicious is the better term,” the executive recalled. Rather than help the banks out, Koch set up a team to study why the banks were so interested in their business. Koch hired the outside consulting firm McKinsey & Company to study what was happening in commodities markets during the 1990s. McKinsey reported that the world of trading had grown even larger and more profitable than Koch Industries had suspected. As it happened, the futures contracts that Koch was trading had become the “plain vanilla” products in a rapidly booming market. Now there were more exotic, more opaque, and far more profitable financial products on the market. These products were called “derivatives.” That’s where the real money was.

Sam shoved Joe’s shoulder. “You’re letting her score!” “I’m not letting her do anything.” “Trade places.” Sam got into position and glared at me. “Let’s see how good you are with a pro across from you.” Joe dropped the ball down the chute, Sam made first contact, I made second, third—” “Score!” “Have you been practicing with my Foosball table at home?” Sam asked. Grinning broadly, I said, “You bet!” “I didn’t give you permission—” “Like I need it. You should see the things I do in your room.” “You mess in my room?” I reached across the table and patted his shoulder. “I’m teasing, Sam. The only thing Allie and I touch is the Foosball table. And a few of your CDs.” He looked at Allie. “Were you letting me win earlier?” he asked suspiciously. “No, I’m just better when I’m with Kate.” “Switch places,” Sam ordered me. “What are we doing, playing musical partners here?

Paul, the baby is coming very soon.” He smiled. “That’s getting real obvious.” “You’re my very best friend, Paul.” “Thanks, Vanni,” he said, but he furrowed his eyebrows. Suspicious. “I want you to be with me during the delivery.” “With you how?” he asked. “I want you to be the one to encourage me, coach me, coax me. Hold my hand. Support me.” “Um… Isn’t that Mel’s job?” “Mel is going to be very much a coach, but she’s also going to be the midwife and she’ll be busy with other things. Especially when the baby is coming out. I need you to do this.” “Vanni,” he said, scooting forward on his chair, “I’m a guy.” “I know. Guys do this.” “I can’t…Vanni, I shouldn’t…. Vanessa, listen. I can’t see you like that. It wouldn’t be…appropriate.” “Well, actually, I thought about my brother or my dad and frankly, that really doesn’t appeal to me. So,” she said, lifting a video from the table beside her, “I got us a childbirth movie from Mel.” “Aw, no,” he said, pleading. She stood up and popped it into the VCR, then sat down again with the remote in her hand. “Jack delivered his own son,” she said. “I know, but in case you’re interested, he wasn’t thrilled about it at the time. And he refuses to do it again—he’s adamant about that. And, Vanni, this isn’t my son. This is my best friend’s son.” “Of course I know that, Paul. But since it is your best friend’s son, he’d be so grateful.” She started the video. “Now, I want you to concentrate on what the partner is doing. Don’t worry about the mother. Most of the time while I’m in labor you’ll either be behind me, or helping me walk or squat to use gravity to help with the dilating, or reminding me to breathe properly. It’s not like you’re going to have your face in the field of birth.” “I’m starting to feel kind of weak,” he said. “Why don’t you ask Brie or Paige, if you need someone for that?” “I could do that, but to tell you the truth, I’m much closer to you. And you’re here—right here. You can do this. We’ll watch the movie together and if you have any questions, just ask me.” He looked at the screen, his brows drawn together. He squinted. This was an unattractive woman, giving birth. Well, not just yet—she was working up to it. Her big belly was sticking out, which was not what made her plain. It was the stringy hair, monobrow, baggy socks on her feet and—“Vanni, she has very hairy legs.” “If that’s what worries you I can still manage to shave my legs, even though I have to admit I’ve lost interest.” The hospital gown on the woman was draped over her belly and legs in such a way that when she started to rise into a sitting position, spreading her thighs and grabbing them to bear down, she was covered. Then the doctor or midwife or whoever was in charge flipped that gown out of the way and there, right in Paul’s face, was the top of a baby’s head emerging from the woman’s body. “Aw, man,” he whined, putting his head in his hands. “I said watch the coach—don’t worry about the woman,” Vanni lectured. “It’s pretty damn hard to not look at that, Vanni,” he said. “Concentrate.” So

won’t see gold until next summer, but we’ll be working through the winter.” “Do you think I could make myself a fortune by this time next year?” “I do. Our claim is a good one.” Michael suddenly grew suspicious. “Why would you do this for me?” Zeb laughed. “It might sound strange, but you remind me of myself, and Sherman and I can use the extra hand. We’re not young anymore. You have your supplies, so it’s not like we’d be hard off having you there. And what might sound even crazier still, I think God put us together for a purpose. That seems as likely a reason as any I can think of.” Michael grinned. “God does work in mysterious ways. But what about Sherman?” “He’ll be glad for the help. We talked about hiring on someone. We even talked about a third man coming in as a partner. You’re younger and in better shape than either of us, so I know we’ll get a fair amount of work out of you. Say, why don’t we talk about it over some grub. I know a little place here in Juneau where we can get a decent meal. The ship will be here for hours, so we have plenty of time.

How each sex has its own prejudice about love — Despite all the concessions that I am willing to make to the prejudice in favor of monogamy, I will never admit the claim that man and woman have equal rights in love; these do not exist. For man and woman have different conceptions of love; and it is one of the conditions of love in both sexes that neither sex presupposes the same feeling and the same concept of “love” in the other. What woman means by love is clear enough: total devotion (not mere surrender98) with soul and body, without any consideration or reserve, rather with shame and horror at the thought of a devotion that might be subject to special clauses or conditions. In this absence of conditions her love is a faith; woman has no other faith. Man, when he loves a woman, wants precisely this love from her and is thus himself as far as can be from the presupposition of feminine love. Supposing, however, that there should also be men to whom the desire for total devotion is not alien; well, then they simply are—not men. A man who loves like a woman becomes a slave; while a woman who loves like a woman becomes a more perfect woman. A woman’s passion in its unconditional renunciation of rights of her own presupposes precisely that on the other side there is no equal pathos, no equal will to renunciation; for if both partners felt impelled by love to renounce themselves, we should then get—I do not know what; perhaps an empty space? Woman wants to be taken and accepted as a possession, wants to be absorbed into the concept of possession, possessed Consequently, she wants someone who takes, who does not give himself or give himself away; on the contrary, he is supposed to become richer in “himself”—through the accretion of strength, happiness, and faith given him by the woman who gives herself. Woman gives herself away, man acquires more—I do not see how one can get around this natural opposition by means of social contracts or with the best will in the world to be just, desirable as it may be not to remind oneself constantly how harsh, terrible, enigmatic, and immoral this antagonism is. For love, thought of in its entirety as great and full, is nature, and being nature it is in all eternity something “immoral.” Faithfulness is accordingly included in woman’s love; it follows from the definition. In man, it can easily develop in the wake of his love, perhaps as gratitude or as an idiosyncratic taste and so-called elective affinity; but it is not an essential element of his love—so definitely not that one might almost speak with some justification of a natural counterplay of love and faithfulness in man. For his love consists of wanting to have and not of renunciation and giving away; but wanting to have always comes to an end with having. It is actually man’s more refined and suspicious lust for possession that rarely admits his “having,” and then only late, and thus permits his love to persist. It is even possible for his love to increase after the surrender; he will not readily concede that a woman should have nothing more to give him.—

Poly Intimates: I’ve started to use this term for people who are sexually exclusive with one partner, but who are not emotionally exclusive with that partner in ways that a traditional monogamous relationship would typically disallow, be suspicious of or characterize as emotional cheating. Poly intimates might share varying degrees of romance and emotional intimacy with more than just the person they are sexually exclusive with. Poly intimates might be nonsexual partners who live together, travel together, raise children together or share other aspects of life, where the level of investment and involvement does not fit the conventional notion of friendship.

You have this superego that exerts contorl over you, a superego built not only from your own experiences but cobbled together form all sorts of things that you admire, creating an idealized version of yourself. But that idealized version of yourself is, in the end, only an ideal. It's not who you actually are. You keep failing to meet that ideal in the real world, and then you punish yourself. If you have a strict superego, the act of being punished eventually becomes gratifying. For example, if you're suspicious of the love you're receiving, and so act out until your partner lashes out and leaves you, you feel relief. You eventually become controlled more by imaginary outside forces than anything that is actually you.

As Lynley watched her, he thought how ironic it was that he had come to depend upon having Havers as his partner. Initially he had believed that no one could possibly be less likely to suit him. She was prickly, argumentative, easily given to anger, and bitterly aware of the enormous gap that existed between them, an impassable chasm created by birth, by class, by money, by experience. They could not have been more antithetical, Havers struggling with a fierce determination to rise out of a working-class neighbourhood in a grimy suburb of London while he moved effortlessly from his home in Cornwall to his town house in Belgravia to his office in New Scotland Yard. But their differences went far beyond mere background. Their perceptions of life and humanity occupied two opposite ends of the spectrum as well. Hers was ruthless, without sympathy, suspicious of motives, and based on distrust of a world that had given her nothing. His was laced with compassion, rich with understanding, and based almost entirely upon a guilt that insisted he reach out, learn, expiate, rescue, make amends. He smiled at the thought that Superintendent Webberly had been absolutely right to put them together, to insist they remain in partnership even at moments when Lynley believed it was an impossible situation that could only grow worse.

To really grasp how the mind pivots on a molecule's turning point we must read the quantum. At the touch of a finger, a neuropeptide bursts into life but from where does it spring? In a hidden process, a transformation of non-matter into matter, a thought of fear and the neurochemical which it turns into are somehow connected. The same thing happens all over nature except we don't call it thinking. The landscape is not one of solid objects moving around like partners in a dance, following predictable steps, when you get to the level of atoms. Subatomic particles are separated by huge gaps, making each atom empty space more than 99.999 per cent. That refers to hydrogen atoms in the air and carbon atoms in the wood which are made of tables, as well as all the "solid" atoms in our bodies. So all solids, including our bodies, are proportionately as hollow as intergalactic space. How could these vast stretches of space, filled by specks of matter at far-off intervals, turn into humans? A quantum perspective is required to answer the problem. We enter a vaster reality, spanning from quarks to galaxies, by understanding the quantique. At the same time, it turns out that the behavior of quantum reality is very intimate to us— indeed, the weakest shadow line separates the human body from the cosmic body. Whenever any mental event is required to find a physical counterpart, it works through the human body's quantum mechanical. That is the secret of how the two worlds of mind and matter became unerringly linked with each other. Mind and body are both saturated through with knowledge, no matter how different they look. Science appears to be suspicious in the face of any argument that wisdom is at work in nature (this is a curious historical anomaly, since each generation before us has embraced some sort of universal order without question). However, if there is nothing to hold things and events together outside ordinary reality, then one is led into a set of impossibilities.

One day, out of the blue, they just became too much. The faces of people who thought nothing of making endless demands, of being constantly given things. The way they sat at the table simply waiting to be served, not lifting a finger. Their certainty that they would be taken care of, without even having to try. I began, in an instant, to hate them. I couldn't be bothered to buy seasonal ingredients, prepare them, cook, choose the plates, serve up the food, then clear away the dishes and wash up for people like that. When I stopped being in touch, when I stopped doing the housework and the cooking, they panicked. Some of them became hyper-suspicious and their behavior took on a stalkerish air. Some of them, after returning to life alone, began neglecting themselves, and suffered physically as a result. Like babies, all of them, whose mother had ceased looking after them. It's odd, isn't it? Once I had found their incompetence, their reliance on me adorable. I believed, up until that point, that I liked pleasing them. Yet I suddenly saw that it was always just me, working away frenziedly, all alone." Rika didn't fail to notice the slightest change in Kajii's expression, the note of sorrow that went sliding across her peach-hued face. "Don't get the wrong idea. I like serving men and giving them pleasure. Women who don't don't deserve the name. But being with just one man, a changeable woman like me gets bored." "And yet you haven't given up looking for a marriage partner?" "It's just that I haven't met the right person yet." "I feel like what you're saying isn't---" "Cooking is enjoyable, but the moment it becomes a duty, it grows boring. The same is true of sex, and fashion, and beauty. When you're forced to do something, it becomes a chore, and the pleasure disappears." Rick's body felt heavy. She knew this was important, and yet she couldn't bring herself to ask a question. "The kind of wife that the men on those sites are looking for is, at base, a woman with no sense of life about her. Their ideal partner would be a kind of ghost." It wasn't at all hot in the room, and yet Rika's armpits were slick with lukewarm sweat. Even the gap between her sleeves and her wrists felt clammy. "The quickest way for a modern Japanese woman to gain the love of a man is to become corpse-like. The kind of men who want those women dead are dead themselves. Indeed, it's because they're dead that they're so terrified of anyone with a sense of life about them. If those men hadn't met me, if I hadn't rejected them, they'd quite probably have died anyway. They were never really here to begin with.