Tall Claims Quotes

The Times 2 July 1952 WAS BRITISH BARONESS WORKING FOR THE NAZIS IN PARIS? By Philip Bing-Wallace It was alleged that Baroness Freya Saumures (who claimed to be of Swedish descent but is a British subject) was one of the many women that entertained the Gestapo and SS during the occupation of Paris, a jury was told. At the baroness’s trial today, the Old Bailey heard Daniel Merrick-James QC, prosecuting council, astonish the jury by revealing that Baroness Freya Saumures allegedly worked with the Nazis throughout the Nazi occupation of Paris. There was a photograph of a woman in a headscarf and dark glasses, alongside a tall dark-haired man who had a protective arm around her, his face shielded by his hand. A description beneath the image read: Baroness Saumures with her husband, Baron Ferdinand Saumures, outside the Old Bailey after her acquittal. Alec could not see her face fully, but the picture of the baron, even partially obscured, certainly looked very like the man lying dead in the Battersea Park Road crypt. Alec read on. When Mr Merrick-James sat, a clerk of the court handed the judge, Justice Henry Folks, a note. The judge then asked the court to be cleared. Twenty minutes later, the court was reconvened. Justice Folks announced to the jury that the prosecution had dropped all charges and that Lady Saumures was acquitted. There was no explanation for the acquittal. The jury was dismissed with thanks. Neither Baron nor Baroness Saumures had any comment. Baron and Baroness Saumures live in West Sussex and are well known to a select group for their musical evenings and events. They are also well known for protecting their privacy. Alec rummaged on. It was getting close to lunchtime and his head was beginning to ache.

ROSE of all Roses, Rose of all the World! The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled Above the tide of hours, trouble the air, And God’s bell buoyed to be the water’s care; While hushed from fear, or loud with hope, a band With blown, spray-dabbled hair gather at hand. Turn if you may from battles never done, I call, as they go by me one by one, Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace, For him who hears love sing and never cease, Beside her clean-swept hearth, her quiet shade: But gather all for whom no love hath made A woven silence, or but came to cast A song into the air, and singing past To smile on the pale dawn; and gather you Who have sought more than is in rain or dew Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth, Or sighs amid the wandering starry mirth, Or comes in laughter from the sea’s sad lips; And wage God’s battles in the long grey ships. The sad, the lonely, the insatiable, To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell; God’s bell has claimed them by the little cry Of their sad hearts, that may not live nor die. Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing. Beauty grown sad with its eternity Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea. Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait, For God has bid them share an equal fate; And when at last defeated in His wars, They have gone down under the same white stars, We shall no longer hear the little cry Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die. The Sweet Far Thing

You’ve been in the mating frenzy before.” Eric looked up at her, his eyes quiet. “Yes.” ”With Kirsten.” ”Yes.” Iona touched her hands together. “You must have loved her very much.” Eric nodded. “Yes. Very much.” ”Then why do you want another mate?” Eric pushed himself from the fireplace and came to her, the first flickers of fire shadowing his tall, naked body. He skimmed warm hands down her arms. ”Because I saw you.

Every fop and fool in London has been sniffing after her." Having said that, Jason returned his attention for the report. "Go ahead and read off the names, if you must." Frowning in surprise at Jason's dismissive attitude, Charles took the seat across the desk from him and put on his spectacles. "First, there is young Lord Crowley, who has already asked my permission to court her." "No. Too impulsive," Jason decreed flatly. "What makes you say so?" Charles said with a bewildered look. "Crowley doesn't know Victoria well enough to want to 'court' her, as you so quaintly phrased it." "Don't be ridiculous. The first four men on this list have already asked my permission to do the same thing- providing, of course, that your claim on her is not unbreakable.” “No, to all those four men- for the same reason,” Jason said curtly, leaning back in his chair, absorbed in the report in his hand. Who’s next?” “Crowley’s friend, Lord Wiltshire.” “Too young. Who’s next?” “Arthur Landcaster.” “Too short,” Jason said cryptically. “Next?” “William Rogers,” Charles shot back in a challenging voice, “and he’s tall, conservative, mature, intelligent, and handsome. He’s also the heir to one of the finest estates in England. I think he would do very well for Victoria.” “No.” “No?” Charles burst out. “Why not?” “I don’t like the way Roger sits a horse.” “You don’t like_” Charles bit out in angry disbelief; then he glanced at Jason’s implacable face and sighed. “Very well. The last name on my list is Lord Terrance. He sits horses extremely well, in addition to being and excellent chap. He is also tall, handsome, intelligent, and wealthy. Now,” he finished triumphantly, “what fault can you find with him?” Jason’s jaw tightened ominously.“I don’t like him.

Natalya’s father, a military man, had taught her to claim her space. He’d taught her how to stand tall, shake hands firmly, look people in the eye, and stake her place in the world, unflinching and unapologetic. Women, like men, had to demand to be counted.

There is a tree. At the downhill edge of a long, narrow field in the western foothills of the La Sal Mountains -- southeastern Utah. A particular tree. A juniper. Large for its species -- maybe twenty feet tall and two feet in diameter. For perhaps three hundred years this tree has stood its ground. Flourishing in good seasons, and holding on in bad times. "Beautiful" is not a word that comes to mind when one first sees it. No naturalist would photograph it as exemplary of its kind. Twisted by wind, split and charred by lightning, scarred by brushfires, chewed on by insects, and pecked by birds. Human beings have stripped long strings of bark from its trunk, stapled barbed wire to it in using it as a corner post for a fence line, and nailed signs on it on three sides: NO HUNTING; NO TRESPASSING; PLEASE CLOSE THE GATE. In commandeering this tree as a corner stake for claims of rights and property, miners and ranchers have hacked signs and symbols in its bark, and left Day-Glo orange survey tape tied to its branches. Now it serves as one side of a gate between an alfalfa field and open range. No matter what, in drought, flood heat and cold, it has continued. There is rot and death in it near the ground. But at the greening tips of its upper branches and in its berrylike seed cones, there is yet the outreach of life. I respect this old juniper tree. For its age, yes. And for its steadfastness in taking whatever is thrown at it. That it has been useful in a practical way beyond itself counts for much, as well. Most of all, I admire its capacity for self-healing beyond all accidents and assaults. There is a will in it -- toward continuing to be, come what may.

Little people make tall claims. As being this-that avatar or messiah. Some even say they're God. Well, if they are, I'm their grand-pop.

Farther south, the Plains of Palen Jabh-J were as safe as they were beautiful, except for the ratbadgers that slithered through the tall grass (a farmer from South Torrboro claimed to have seen one as big as a young meep, which is about the size of a full-grown chorkney, an animal that stands about as high as a flabbit).

Aue sent an office boy with a message to the company’s original accountant, a Polish Jew named Itzhak Stern, who was at home with influenza. Aue was a political appointee with little accounting experience. He wanted Stern to come into the office and resolve the impasse over the bolts of linen. He had just sent the message off to Stern’s house in Podgórze when his secretary came into the office and announced that a Herr Oskar Schindler was waiting outside, claiming to have an appointment. Aue went into the outer room and saw a tall young man, placid as a large dog, tranquilly smoking. The two had met at a party the night before. Oskar had been there with a Sudeten German girl named Ingrid, Treuhänder, or supervisor, of a Jewish hardware company, just as Aue was Treuhänder of Buchheister’s. They were a glamorous couple, Oskar and this Ingrid, frankly in love, stylish, with lots of friends in the Abwehr.

I learned since then, and paid a price to learn, it that them as laid claim to great wisdom most often got nothing in their store but bare scrapings. And by the same token, them as think they're ignorant think it because they can see the edges of what they know, which you can only see when what you know is tall enough to stand on, and take a look around.

Finnick Odair is something of a living legend in Panem. Since he won the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games when he was only fourteen, he’s still one of the youngest victors. Being from District 4, he was a Career, so the odds were already in his favour, but what no trainer could claim to have given him was his extraordinary beauty. Tall, athletic, with golden skin and bronze-coloured hair and those incredible eyes.

A tall, lithe woman with black hair and wearing a skimpy black dress—clearly not waitstaff—was plastered up against Max, her arms wrapped around him and her lips crushing his. It

My motto has always been: a hard man is good to find.” Tess gave Hunter’s unflinching bicep a gentle squeeze, claiming it and the man for her own. “And never let the bride stand in the way of me and my hard man.

In 1979 Griselda Drown was a senior volleyballer at Boise High, a terrifically tall girl with trunky thighs, slender arms and a volleyball serve that won an Idaho State Championship despite T-shirts claiming it was a team effort.

Ten thousand years ago, her husband, Abraham the Mage, had presented her with the weapons and armor. “To keep you safe,” he said, his speech a slurred mumble. “Now and always. When you wear it, think of me.” “I’ll think of you even when I’m not wearing it,” she promised, and never a day went by when she did not think of the man who had worked so hard and sacrificed so much to make and save the world. The memory of him was vivid. Abraham stood tall and slender in a darkened room at the top of the crystal tower, the Tor Ri. He was wrapped in shadow, turned away from her so she wouldn’t see the Change that had almost completely claimed his flesh, transforming it to solid gold. She remembered turning him to the light so she could look at him for what she knew might be the very last time. Then she had held him, pressing his flesh and metal against her skin, and wept against his shoulder. And when she looked into his face, a single tear, a solid bead of gold, rolled down his cheek. Rising up on her toes, she had kissed the tear off his face, swallowing it. Tsagaglalal pressed her hands to her stomach. It nestled within her still.

them as lay claim to great wisdom most often got nothing in their store but bare scrapings. And by the same token, them as think they’re ignorant think it because they can see the edges of what they know, which you can only see when what you know is tall enough to stand on and take a look around.

It was a part of me that I was taking, this magical part of me that he somehow sparked into being. I wasn’t waiting for Santa; I wasn’t waiting like some heroine in a romance novel for the tall, dark stranger to make a gift of these feelings he evoked in me, I was taking it, I was claiming this for my own.

I learned since then, and paid a price to learn it, that them as lay claim to great wisdom most often got nothing in their store but bare scrapings. And by the same token, them as think they’re ignorant think it because they can see the edges of what they know, which you can only see when what you know is tall enough to stand on and take a look around.

Having never had dealings with Bow Street, Lady Fieldhurst was not quite certain what to expect: perhaps a stout fellow past his prime, befuddled with sleep or spirits, with a bulbous red nose—the same sort as might be found in any number of watchmen’s boxes across the metropolis. The individual who entered the room in [the footman's] wake, however, was very nearly her own age. To be sure, his nose was somewhat crooked, as if it had been broken at some point, but it was far from bulbous, and it was certainly not red. He was quite tall, almost gangly, with curling brown hair tied at the nape of his neck in an outmoded queue. He wore an unfashionably shallow-crowned hat and a black swallow-tailed coat of good cloth but indifferent cut; indeed, his only claim to fashion lay in the quizzing glass which hung round his neck from a black ribbon, and which he now raised, the resulting magnification revealing his eyes to be a warm brown. Julia might have been much reassured as to his competence, had it not been for the fact that his mouth hung open as from a rusty hinge.

They drank from a spring which filled an ancient stone trough behind the ruin. Beyond it lay overgrown beds and plants John had never set eyes on before: tall resinous fronds, prickly shrubs, long grey-green leaves hot to the tongue. Nestling among them he found the root whose scent drifted among the trees like a ghost, sweet and tarry. He knelt and pressed it to his nose. 'That was called silphium.' His mother stood behind him. 'It grew in Saturnus's first garden.' She showed him the most ancient trees in the orchards, their gnarled trunks cloaked in grey lichen. Palm trees had grown there too once, she claimed. Now even their stumps had gone. Each day, John left the hearth to forage in the wreckage of Belicca's gardens. His nose guided him through the woods. Beyond the chestnut avenue, the wild skirrets, alexanders and broom grew in drifts. John chased after rabbits or climbed trees in search of birds' eggs. He returned with mallow seeds or chestnuts that they pounded into meal then mixed with water and baked on sticks. The unseasonal orchards yielded tiny red and gold-streaked apples, hard green pears and sour yellow cherries.

This Colton is so different from the tall, dark, and irksome first impression I had of him. This is the Colton hidden beneath the watchful, careful by-the-book outer layer that felt like an impenetrable wall until we kissed. This is the Colton who challenges me to coax him into a rare smile. Who offers up dry humor and keen insight when least expected. Who’s managed to stake a claim in my heart.

He couldn’t have known it, but among the original run of The History of Love, at least one copy was destined to change a life. This particular book was one of the last of the two thousand to be printed, and sat for longer than the rest in a warehouse in the outskirts of Santiago, absorbing the humidity. From there it was finally sent to a bookstore in Buenos Aires. The careless owner hardly noticed it, and for some years it languished on the shelves, acquiring a pattern of mildew across the cover. It was a slim volume, and its position on the shelf wasn’t exactly prime: crowded on the left by an overweight biography of a minor actress, and on the right by the once-bestselling novel of an author that everyone had since forgotten, it hardly left its spine visible to even the most rigorous browser. When the store changed owners it fell victim to a massive clearance, and was trucked off to another warehouse, foul, dingy, crawling with daddy longlegs, where it remained in the dark and damp before finally being sent to a small secondhand bookstore not far from the home of the writer Jorge Luis Borges. The owner took her time unpacking the books she’d bought cheaply and in bulk from the warehouse. One morning, going through the boxes, she discovered the mildewed copy of The History of Love. She’d never heard of it, but the title caught her eye. She put it aside, and during a slow hour in the shop she read the opening chapter, called 'The Age of Silence.' The owner of the secondhand bookstore lowered the volume of the radio. She flipped to the back flap of the book to find out more about the author, but all it said was that Zvi Litvinoff had been born in Poland and moved to Chile in 1941, where he still lived today. There was no photograph. That day, in between helping customers, she finished the book. Before locking up the shop that evening, she placed it in the window, a little wistful about having to part with it. The next morning, the first rays of the rising sun fell across the cover of The History of Love. The first of many flies alighted on its jacket. Its mildewed pages began to dry out in the heat as the blue-gray Persian cat who lorded over the shop brushed past it to lay claim to a pool of sunlight. A few hours later, the first of many passersby gave it a cursory glance as they went by the window. The shop owner did not try to push the book on any of her customers. She knew that in the wrong hands such a book could easily be dismissed or, worse, go unread. Instead she let it sit where it was in the hope that the right reader might discover it. And that’s what happened. One afternoon a tall young man saw the book in the window. He came into the shop, picked it up, read a few pages, and brought it to the register. When he spoke to the owner, she couldn’t place his accent. She asked where he was from, curious about the person who was taking the book away. Israel, he told her, explaining that he’d recently finished his time in the army and was traveling around South America for a few months. The owner was about to put the book in a bag, but the young man said he didn’t need one, and slipped it into his backpack. The door chimes were still tinkling as she watched him disappear, his sandals slapping against the hot, bright street. That night, shirtless in his rented room, under a fan lazily pushing around the hot air, the young man opened the book and, in a flourish he had been fine-tuning for years, signed his name: David Singer. Filled with restlessness and longing, he began to read.

Rather than trying to make sense of other people from your own perspective and lived experience, you must work to understand their experiences deeply, from their perspectives and lived experiences. Radical empathy is a tall order, and I would never claim to have wholly succeeded at it. Like all human beings, I am prone to biases born of my own experiences that color how I make sense of everything I observe. But an awareness of these biases — and a continual commitment to questioning them — also positioned me to see what others might have missed when it came to families’ diets.

For the house of Dunraven, the ravens represented a spiritual claim to the Tower for the Celtic, especially the Welsh, people. For the English, the ravens represented the colorful savagery of their ancestors, which, however, testified to the exalted state of civilization they had since achieved. The national sagas of the Welsh and English gradually blended in tall tales told to tourists by Yeoman Warders, to eventually create a national myth. The romanticized past of Wales, predicated on survival, was fused with that of England, predicated on progress and conquest, to create a legend of Britain.

When the girl didn’t move, Gavin summoned her near with his fingers. His heart thrummed as she obeyed, stepping up close to him. Her young stature was much shorter than his tall, wiry form. Gavin regarded her prettiness - pale cheeks, pink lips, inquisitive eyes. Fascinated by her, he longed to know her name. “Who are you?” he asked. He heard the girl utter the same question at the same time. Cocking his head, he claimed, “I asked you first.” “No you didn’t,” she protested, shaking her red-hooded head, “I asked you at the same time you asked me.” Gavin grinned at her insistence. It was hard for him not to chuckle. “Well, then, I suppose we’ll have to go with ‘girls first’.” His grin widened into a white smile. The girl gestured to herself. “I’m Little Red Riding Hood.” He recognized the name of a fairy tale character, and groaned under his breath at not having discovered this dreamer’s real name. “Actually,” she confessed almost immediately, “I’m not really Red Riding Hood. My name is Annabelle, but I’m pretending to be her because……well……because this is my dream and that’s what I wish to dream about.” Oh glorious day! He’d learned her name! Annabelle! Annabelle! What a perfectly sweet sound was this utterance of…..Annabelle.

Beside the great image she seemed little, and even for a woman she was not tall, in spite of her high diadem. She wore the whole costume of the Goddess, all but the snakes. Even her skin, pale golden, polished and clear, had a look of ivory. Her high round breasts had golden tips, like those above her. Their faces were painted just alike, the eyes drawn round with black, the brows arched and thickened, the small mouth red. It seemed the face below must be itself the same. Since childhood I had seen my mother dressed for her priestly office; yet I was awed. She had never claimed to be more than a servant of the deity. This small stiff figure had a bearing that might claim anything.

Love was the greatest of enchantments; if Echidna and her children succeeded in killing Kypris, Thelxiepeia would no doubt, would doubtless … Become the goddess of love in a century or less, said the Outsider, standing not behind Silk as he had in the ball court, but before him—standing on the still water of the pool, tall and wise and kind, with a face that nearly came into focus. I would claim her in that case, long before the end. As I have so many others. As I am claiming Kypris even now because love always proceeds from me, real love, true love. First romance. The Outsider was the dancing man on a toy, and the water the polished toy-top on which he danced with Kypris, who was Hyacinth and Mother, too. First romance, sang the Outsider with the music box. First romance. It was why he was called the Outsider. He was outside—

They say the princess is a stunner,” said Peashot. “They also say she’s eighteen and twice as tall as you,” Vayle replied. “I meant the younger one.” “The younger one is a boy.” “Oh. Well then I meant the older one. Five years is not so much, and anyway, I’ll grow.” “Yes, I’m sure she thinks daily of a delinquent midget apprentice growing up to claim her hand ahead of all the nobles and princes of the realm. What could any of them possibly give that you don’t have, except titles, land, wealth and all that. You don’t have any of those things lying around, do you?” “You’re an idiot, Vayle. What does delinquent mean?” “It means you. If anybody asks you to describe yourself, that’s the word you want.” “Thanks. Idiot.” “My pleasure. Allisian is pretty though, but I’ve heard that the prince chops off the heads of men who stare at his sister.” Peashot snorted.

Jean Kurek looked a bit like a field mouse herself, with her close-cut gray hair, in her shapeless gray dress—no zippers, no buttons. Stroke clothes. Her appearance was no more or less distinguished than it had been all her sixty-eight years, the most likely description of her a string of negatives. Not really tall or short, you wouldn’t say she’s heavy but she isn’t particularly thin, not ugly, not at all, but not pretty either, her hair is that color that isn’t blond or brown. Arguably, her most striking feature was the absence of any striking feature—though her hair had finally claimed a color, gray. She’d certainly never been considered beautiful, not by anyone other than Cliff, who had been adamant on the point for over forty years; but if she’d ever yearned for greater consensus, that yearning had been tempered by her knowledge of how she would loathe the attention it would bring. Jean had spent a lifetime trying to be inconspicuous, appreciating that nature had given her a head start.

Gargantuan figure. Almost seven feet tall, he had great physical strength and remarkable manual dexterity, and his interests were astonishingly broad. He claimed to have mastered fourteen trades as well as surgery and dentistry. When courtiers and servants took sick they tried to conceal it from Peter, for if he thought that medical attention was needed he would gather his instruments and offer his services. Among his personal belongings Peter left a sackful of teeth, testimony to his thriving dental practice. Peter was also a man with a strong sadistic streak. He delighted, for example, in forcing all his guests, including the ladies, to drink vodka straight – the way he liked it – and in large quantities. Johann Korb, the secretary of the Austrian embassy in Moscow from 1698 to 1699, described a particularly gruesome incident at one of these festive occasions: ‘Boyar Golowin has, from his cradle, a natural horror of salad and vinegar; so the Czar directing Colonel Chambers to hold him tight, forced salad and vinegar into his mouth and nostrils, until the blood flowing from his nose succeeded his violent coughing.

(from Lady of the Lake) The western waves of ebbing day Rolled o’er the glen their level way; Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire. But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below, Where twined the path in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; Round many an insulated mass, The native bulwarks of the pass, Huge as the tower which builders vain Presumptuous piled on Shinar’s plain. The rocky summits, split and rent, Formed turret, dome, or battlement, Or seemed fantastically set With cupola or minaret, Wild crests as pagod ever decked, Or mosque of Eastern architect. Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Nor lacked they many a banner fair; For, from their shivered brows displayed, Far o’er the unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen, The brier-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, Waved in the west-wind’s summer sighs. Boon nature scattered, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain’s child. Here eglantine embalmed the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale, and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower; Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride, Grouped their dark hues with every stain The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath, Gray birch and aspen wept beneath; Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock; And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung His shattered trunk, and frequent flung, Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, His boughs athwart the narrowed sky. Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, Where glist’ning streamers waved and danced, The wanderer’s eye could barely view The summer heaven’s delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream. Onward, amid the copse ’gan peep A narrow inlet, still and deep, Affording scarce such breadth of brim As served the wild duck’s brood to swim. Lost for a space, through thickets veering, But broader when again appearing, Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face Could on the dark-blue mirror trace; And farther as the hunter strayed, Still broader sweep its channels made. The shaggy mounds no longer stood, Emerging from entangled wood, But, wave-encircled, seemed to float, Like castle girdled with its moat; Yet broader floods extending still Divide them from their parent hill, Till each, retiring, claims to be An islet in an inland sea. And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer’s ken, Unless he climb, with footing nice A far projecting precipice. The broom’s tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled, In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light, And mountains, that like giants stand, To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue Down to the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mountains, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feathered o’er His ruined sides and summit hoar, While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.

Think of the many articles one can find every year in the Wall Street Journal describing some entrepreneur or businessman as being a "pioneer" or a "maverick" or a "cowboy." Think of the many times these ambitious modern men are described as "staking their claim" or boldly pushing themselves "beyond the frontier" or even "riding into the sunset." We still use this nineteenth-century lexicon to describe our boldest citizens, but it's really a code now, because these guys aren't actually pioneers; they are talented computer programmers, biogenetic researchers, politicians, or media monguls making a big splash in a fast modern economy. But when Eustace Conway talks about staking a claim, the guy is literally staking a goddamn claim. Other frontier expressions that the rest of us use as metaphors, Eustace uses literally. He does sit tall in the saddle; he does keep his powder dry; he is carving out a homestead. When he talks about reining in horses or calling off the dogs or mending fences, you can be sure that there are real horses, real dogs or real fences in the picture. And when Eustace goes in for the kill, he's not talking about a hostile takeover of a rival company; he's talking about really killing something.

I’m here to claim you.” The last thing he’d expected was for her to hurl a teaspoon at his forehead. Shit, that actually hurt. “Claim me? Now there’s a fucking joke. I’d rather French kiss a goddamn barracuda than mate with you!” Nick cursed in surprise as Shaya lifted one of the wooden breakfast stools and launched it at him. He barely ducked in time to dodge it. When he stood tall again, it was to see another stool coming at him. He caught that one, using it as a shield against the next stool. Then she was racing out of the room. Before she could escape from the house, Nick dashed after her. But she didn’t open the front door. She reached behind the rack of coats in the hallway, pulled out a baseball bat, turned sharply, and swung it at his head. Motherfucker. He jumped backward, barely avoiding it. “Dammit, Shay!” Where had his sweet mate gone? Having a bad temper was one thing, but the female in front of him was a merciless psycho. Proving that, she swung the bat again—this time at his abdomen. Although he jerked away, he only managed to dull the impact of her swing. It still connected hard with his abdomen, making him instinctively bend over as the breath whooshed out of him. That was when the bat came flying at his head again.

And were you immediately taken with Charlotte, when you found her?" "Who wouldn't be?" Gentry parried with a bland smile. He drew a slow circle on Lottie's palm, stroking the insides of her fingers, brushed his thumb over the delicate veins of her wrist. The subtle exploration made her feel hot and breathless, her entire being focused on the fingertip that feathered along the tender flesh of her upper palm. Most disconcerting of all was the realization that Gentry didn't even know what he was doing. He fiddled lazily with her hand and talked with Sophia, while the chocolate service was brought to the parlor and set out on the table. "Isn't it charming?" Sophia asked, indicating the flowered porcelain service with a flourish. She picked up the tall, narrow pot and poured a dark, fragrant liquid into one of the small cups, filling the bottom third. "Most people use cocoa powder, but the best results are obtained by mixing the cream with chocolate liquor." Expertly she stirred a generous spoonful of sugar into the steaming liquid. "Not liquor as in wine or spirits, mind you. Chocolate liquor is pressed from the meat of the beans, after they have been roasted and hulled." "It smells quite lovely," Lottie commented, her breath catching as Gentry's fingertip investigated the plump softness at the base of her thumb. Sophia turned her attention to preparing the other cups. "Yes, and the flavor is divine. I much prefer chocolate to coffee in the morning." "Is it a st-stimulant, then?" Lottie asked, finally managing to jerk her hand away from Gentry. Deprived of his plaything, he gave her a questioning glance. "Yes, of a sort," Sophia replied, pouring a generous amount of cream into the sweetened chocolate liquor. She stirred the cups with a tiny silver spoon. "Although it is not quite as animating as coffee, chocolate is uplifting in its own way." She winked at Lottie. "Some even claim that chocolate rouses the amorous instincts." "How interesting," Lottie said, doing her best to ignore Gentry as she accepted her cup. Inhaling the rich fumes appreciatively, she took a tiny sip of the shiny, dark liquid. The robust sweetness slid along her tongue and tickled the back of her throat. Sophia laughed in delight at Lottie's expression. "You like it, I see. Good- now I have found an inducement to make you visit often." Lottie nodded as she continued to drink. By the time she reached the bottom of the cup, her head was swimming, and her nerves were tingling from the mixture of heat and sugar. Gentry set his cup aside after a swallow or two. "Too rich for my taste, Sophia, although I compliment your skill in preparing it. Besides, my amorous instincts need no encouragement." He smiled as the statement caused Lottie to choke on the last few drops of chocolate.

widening. “Don’t you dare draw their fire.”  Lynn.   Jonathan committed the name to memory. The outsiders didn’t seem to notice the man’s slip. They kept their weapons trained on the girl. She glared at them as if daring them to kill her. “Go ahead! Shoot! I’m sick of being hunted by you! Kill me and claim the fame. Do it!”  Parker dodged forward, rushing past any and all that stood between him and the woman named Lynn. He shoved his body in front of hers in a protective manner and glared at the men. “You’ll not harm her. She’s under my protection now.”  Eli let out a low whistle. “Never did I see that coming. Saw-bones is a born skirt-chaser. Think he might have The Fever or something? He’s always doctorin’ folks with weird ailments.”  Well, if The Fever included an uncontrollable urge to protect a woman, then his brother most certainly had caught it. He could only hope Parker’s case was curable. Jonathan knew his own case wasn’t. Molly had infected him long ago and he knew he’d never get her out of his veins. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. His exploits of the female persuasion were legendary—so was the fact he refused to commit. “Are you stupid?” Lynn asked, giving Parker a good shove. At five-eight, she was tall by female standards but short compared the MacSweeny boys. Still, she managed to get Parker to budge ever so slightly, shocking Jonathan. “Move! They’ll gun you down to get to me.”  “Then so be it.”  Jonathan shook his head. Parker was bound to get himself killed without some serious intervention. “Parker, get her and your ass out of there. We’ll take care of our guests. We’ll even be sweet enough to give ‘em that welcome speech you had worked out.”  “Parker?” the girl asked. She glanced at Jonathan and Eli and her eyes widened. “That means one of you is Jonathan.” The feel of a cold, hard barrel pressed against the back of Jonathan’s head. Cursing himself for letting his guard down, he put his hands up as his attacker shoved harder with the gun.  “Lookie, boys, we got us a sheriff. He’s got to bring a good amount of coinage, don’t ya think?”  There was a flash of black. A blur. Several shots. Screams. Jonathan caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized someone had shot the man who had him at gunpoint. Chapter Four Molly

The sub-sector needed a person, preferably an officer, civilian or military, to handle logistics. We had information that a certain Lieutenant Enamul Haque, a native of Chapai Nawabganj had crossed over to India and was now living with relatives in Malda. Jahangir contacted him and invited him to the Sub-sector HQ through some of his relatives who were in our Sub-sector. After much persuasion, he agreed to come. Jahangir scheduled the meeting when the Sector Commander would be present. A couple of days later, Enam came to Mohidipur. Jahangir and I were also present in the meeting. Enam was a tall individual with a good physique but he seemed nervous. Colonel Zaman opened the conversation with the usual inquiries: when did he cross the border, where was he staying in Malda, what was he doing, et cetera. Enam was not doing anything; he was simply hiding in Malda. Colonel Zaman told him that to the Pakistan Army he was a deserter and a rebel, irrespective of whether he joined the Mukti Bahini or not. He implored him to join; we needed all the help we could get. Enam responded that he was from the EME; he was not a fighter. Colonel Zaman assured him he would not be given any combat assignments; he would have an administrative job. He was going to BDF HQ soon and could have Enam assigned to Mohidipur Sub-sector as logistics officer and Enam could even stay with relatives in Malda if he liked. No amount of persuasion could convince Enam. It surprised me a great deal that a Bengali military officer, who deserted the Pakistan Army and crossed over to India, was unwilling to make any contribution to the liberation war, even in a non-combat capacity[33]. This was true of many young and able university and college students especially from middle class families. I had met some of them in Calcutta. On one occasion. Sultana Zaman, Colonel Zaman’s wife, had asked a female MPA why her two university going sons had not joined the Mukti Bahini? The MPA replied that her boys were intellectual types not suited for fighting, implying that combat was the task for lesser beings. [33] In 1973, I met Enamul Haque in the Bangabhaban where he was ADC to the President. He was claiming to be a freedom fighter! He retired as a brigadier. After retirement, he became a state minister in Sheikh Hasina's government in 2009.

Her breath caught in her chest and she couldn't seem to form words. She was too busy reveling in the reality that she was in the exact place she'd dreamed of being, for so long. It was light years better than anything she'd ever fantasized it would be. His hands were big, but gentle. His words soothed, but there was an edge to his voice that incited as well. And he was bigger somehow, more imposing, more densely muscled than she'd imagined him to be. She'd thought of him as the tall, lanky golden boy, all sunny good looks and breezy charisma. But, looking up at him from where she was, tucked in the shelter of his body, she could see the street in him. She'd had a hard time imagining that such a good-natured charmer could have been forged from the rough and tumble life he'd described. But she believed it now. There was a hard edge to his jaw, and the muscles in his shoulders bunched tightly as he skimmed his fingers into her hair. He exuded heat, and she swore she could feel the thudding beat of his heart, even with the bedspread bunched between them. "What are you thinking?" He brought his fingertips back to her cheeks, then ran them along her bottom lip. She moaned softly at the contact, and recalled, quite vividly, the way he'd leaped the counter and taken her in that claiming, branding kiss. Yes, there was a lot more rough and tumble to Baxter Dunne than she'd ever imagined. And now all that rough and tumble was sprawled naked in her bed, focusing a formidable level attention on her. "You've nothing to be afraid, of, luv," he said, as if reading her mind. And maybe he had. Or maybe there was something of what she was feeling in her eyes. She felt like she was tucked up against a jungle cat, muscles coiled and bunched... just waiting, tail flicking, all languid and relaxed to the casual eye, all poised for just the right moment to pounce.

The Greys The Greys are the most commonly reported alien species. They are the classic alien with large bug-like eyes, a slit for a mouth, small nose and long spindly arms and legs. They are usually around 3 to 4 feet tall. The Greys may be the “brains” of the alien races. People who claim to have been abducted usually say that the Greys don’t seem bothered by humans in pain. They are the most commonly observed aliens seen during UFO events. Nordic Aliens The Nordics or blondes are identified by those humans who say they have been contacted by them. They say they look like humans who are from Northern Europe such as Scandinavians. They are supposed to have long blond hair and blue eyes and are between six to seven feet tall. Those who have been contacted say the Nordics are friendly beings who want to observe and communicate with humans. They are concerned about the Earth’s environment and world peace. The Nordics are seen as leaders and the Greys their servants. Reptilians The Reptilians are also involved in abductions according to a few of those who claim to have been abducted by aliens. They are supposedly 5-7 feet tall, have red eyes and resemble a lizard. The Reptilians are very intelligent but also not nice. There are many frightening stories about these guys. There are many other races and species of aliens according to contactees. I’m not sure about any of these reports but I’m thinking that I’ll hope for contact with the Blondes. Reptilians please stay away!

The Greys are the most commonly reported alien species. They are the classic alien with large bug-like eyes, a slit for a mouth, small nose and long spindly arms and legs. They are usually around 3 to 4 feet tall. The Greys may be the “brains” of the alien races. People who claim to have been abducted usually say that the Greys don’t seem bothered by humans in pain. They are the most commonly observed aliens seen during UFO events. Nordic Aliens The Nordics or blondes are identified by those humans who say they have been contacted by them. They say they look like humans who are from Northern Europe such as Scandinavians. They are supposed to have long blond hair and blue eyes and are between six to seven feet tall. Those who have been contacted say the Nordics are friendly beings who want to observe and communicate with humans. They are concerned about the Earth’s environment and world peace. The Nordics are seen as leaders and the Greys their servants. Reptilians The Reptilians are also involved in abductions according to a few of those who claim to have been abducted by aliens. They are supposedly 5-7 feet tall, have red eyes and resemble a lizard. The Reptilians are very intelligent but also not nice. There are many frightening stories about these guys. There are many other races and species of aliens according to contactees. I’m not sure about any of these reports but I’m thinking that I’ll hope for contact with the Blondes. Reptilians please stay away!

I DON'T CLAIM TO BE A MASTER OF ANYTHING ... I prefer to be a mistress instead, tall black vinyl boots, red garter, tight laced bodice, long flowing hair, wicked smile …

just like we did back then. But the upgrades weren’t done yet, the builders still needed to expand the trench. So, now they are working on that.   A couple of notable villagers moved into town. One was named Peter. He claimed to be a great builder and wants to build amazingly tall buildings. Peter proposed to the mayor that we start building higher structures because it would help save space since our town was growing

Friendship lasted longer than love because the former never made tall claims or empty promises. All it did was be there when love wasn't.

Tall claims warrant great skepticism

The male smirked, gratified. “Physical attributes?” “You are very tall,” Claire quipped flatly, taking another bite, not at all interested in padding the Alpha’s ego. His foot bumped hers under the table. “List another attribute.” Dodging Alpha pride was something Claire had years of experience with. “You are bald. It must save time not combing your hair.

A girl a few feet away suddenly gasped, jumping up and down. “Ohmagod it’s Caleb Altair.” I glanced over my shoulder in the direction she was pointing, pulling away from my friends. Caleb headed a line of Juniors as he strode down the corridor like he owned every ounce of oxygen in it. His friends pointed us out and my gut tightened as his stony gaze slid over us. His fan club were eyeing him hopefully and I knew in the depths of my heart he wasn’t going to pass us by without comment. He slowed his pace, breathing in deeply. “Do you smell that guys?” He sniffed the air and my scowl grew. “Smells like a bunch of Orderless Fae pretending they deserve a place in our prestigious Academy.” “Is it raining assholes today?” Tory commented, turning away from him and for a moment it almost looked like he was going to crack a smile. “I have an Order,” Sofia muttered under her breath but Caleb’s Vampire hearing didn’t let her get away with it. “I wouldn’t go around reminding people of that, blondie. Being a Pegasus is worse than not having an Order.” His friend fist bumped him, nodding his agreement as he laughed. He was a tall guy with red hair and cold eyes. “Yeah I dunno how there are so many of them on campus,” the redhead jibed. “Only a freak would want to screw a horse.” Caleb chuckled at that, nodding firmly. “I think I’d rather give up my claim first.” His shitbag friends laughed their heads off as Caleb swept off down the hall to a stream of excited hoots. “God he’s awful,” I growled. “Ignore him Sofia.” “If I ever bump into him as a Pegasus, I’ll introduce him to my left hoof,” Sofia hissed and I raised my brows at the fire in her eyes. “I would so love to see that,” Tory laughed, then lowered her voice as she looked to me. “I wonder if we can use his Pegasus hate against him?” “Yeah, you should spread a rumour that he likes Pegasus ass,” Sofia whispered, a manic gleam in her eyes. I kinda liked this crazy side to her and couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled from my throat. Diego stared at her in shock, then nodded keenly. “That would be fantastico, Sofia. I doubt anyone would believe us freaks though.” He winked at her and she blushed at his insinuation. (Darcy)

While the orc was still certainly nearly seven feet tall, if not more, he was noticeably shorter than his father and siblings. His features seemed somehow softer, his tusks less pronounced—while the sides of his head were shaved and the remaining jet-black hair pulled back into a short ponytail, he did not have any of the visible tattoos Hrul had.

If you kill your wife, you don’t concoct a tall tale about somebody locking you in a van and making you fight to the death. You do it discretely, you hide the body, you claim innocence.

Most of what we know of the Shepherd King we take from lore. His histories were destroyed, and none of his children survived to claim the throne. Brutus Rowan, his Captain of the Guard, became the next King of Blunder.” The Nightmare’s tail twitched, stirring the darkness in my mind. I paused. “Suppose we manage to find the Twin Alders.” I looked up at the Yews. “Whose blood do you intend to use to unite the Deck?” Fenir leaned forward. “You may have met him. He’s head of the King’s Physicians.” The tall, narrow man with eerily pale eyes. “Orithe Willow?” I cried. “He’s infected?” Fenir picked up The Old Book of Alders, gingerly placing it back onto his shelf. “Like yourself,” he said, “Orithe caught the infection as a child. But the King kept him alive for one reason. Orithe’s magic allows him to spot the infection in others. Surely you’ve seen the apparatus he wears around his hand?” I had. It was a metal claw, with long, angry spikes reaching out from each of his pale fingers. I felt the blood drain from my face. “Orithe uses that—that device—to see the infection in others?

He groped about for several minutes, growling like a bear and stamping his feet at anyone who ventured too close. Isabella rushed at him and retreated several times, giggling each time he missed. Then before Adelaide quite knew what had happened, the little mischief-maker shoved her from behind and launched her directly into Gideon’s path. Adelaide trod on his foot and banged into his chest, but Gideon wrapped his arms about her and somehow kept them upright. “Well, who do I have here?” His voice remained jovial, but she could feel his heartbeat accelerate under her palm. Did he know? Gideon’s hand moved up her back and lingered at the base of her neck. “Definitely feels like a member of the female persuasion.” His fingers toyed with the loose tendrils at her nape. Adelaide closed her eyes against the sensations assaulting her. His touch traveled to her shoulder, and she forced her eyes open. If he knew it was her, why was he taking so long to claim his victory? “Let me see …” He traced one of the rosettes on the edge of her sleeve. “I don’t recall Mrs. Chalmers wearing a flower like this.” Warmth from his hand shocked her momentarily as he quickly passed over the small section of her arm covered by neither gown nor glove. Calluses grazed her skin, leaving tingles in their wake. “Too tall to be Bella.” He explored her elbow, her wrist, and finally clasped her hand where it lay pressed against his shirtfront. “Mrs. Garrett’s dress had long sleeves, I believe, so this gloved arm must belong to …” His thumb drew a small circle against her palm. “Miss Proctor.” He’d known all along, the scoundrel.

Bastien noticed that the two women hugged and touched and patted a lot. It was nice in one way, warm and affectionate, but he also felt a pinch of jealousy, wishing he was the recipient of some of those hugs, pats and touches. But Terri had been keeping her distance since Kate and Lucern had arrived. She’d even been avoiding eye contact, and that troubled him. He wanted to put his arm around her and claim her as his own. She didn’t seem to feel the same.

Some psychologists are now claiming that one hour of visualization is worth 7 hours of physical effort. That’s a tall claim, but it makes an important point—visualization is one of the strongest tools in your success toolbox. Make sure you use it.

Hello, Maddie,” a deep male voice said behind her. Her stomach dropped like a lead weight. She slowly turned. “Hello, Steve.” While she felt like she’d lived a lifetime since she’d last seen him, he looked remarkably unchanged: composed as ever with his blue-eyed, sandy-haired boy-next-door good looks. His tall, lean frame was immaculately dressed in a white shirt and khakis. No stress showed in either his face or stance. “I have to admit, I didn’t expect to find you so easily, but here you are. It must be my lucky day.” Bile rose in her tight throat and she didn’t dare look at Charlie and Gracie sitting across from her, far too quietly. “What are you doing here?” Steve smiled, a calm, easy smile. “I’m here to claim my runaway bride.” God,

And you shouldn’t have called me your boyfriend.” He looks down at me as he opens the door of the restaurant for me. “I’m sorry,” I start. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just wanted her to go away.” And I wanted to stake my claim, even though I had no right to one. He looks down at me beneath the street light. “You shouldn’t have said it because you gave me hope,” he says. I can’t speak. I can’t utter out a sound. “Come home with me,” he says. I shake my head. He sighs heavily. “You know how this is going to end.” “I shouldn’t.” I really, really shouldn’t. “Fine,” he says, and then he bends at the waist and tosses me over his shoulder, just like the night before. Only this time, his hand is on my ass, under my skirt, instead of holding the backs of my legs. It’s hot pressed against my panties. I can’t say a word to him because he wouldn’t hear me. So, I just hang there, all the way to his building and up the four flights of stairs. He opens the door and walks inside. His brothers are there, and they look up. Sam and Pete snicker, and Paul shoots them a look. Matthew is on the sofa, and he shakes his head. Logan puts me down. Apparently, I’m not a sideshow attraction tonight. “Hi,” I say tentatively to them all. “Hi,” they call back. They don’t get up and rush over to me, not even when he sets me on my feet. “You’re back,” Matthew says as he walks to the fridge. He looks better tonight. Not quite as green. Sam walks to the kitchen, and Paul snaps at him when he reaches for a beer. He takes a soda, instead, grumbling to himself. Logan signs something to them. Pete tells him the name of the movie they’re watching, and it’s one I haven’t heard of. Logan points to the TV and then to me asking me if I’ve seen it. I shake my head. He sets my bag and my guitar on the floor and laces his fingers with mine. He tugs me gently toward the couch. Logan bumps Sam’s and Pete’s knees until they scoot over. There’s barely enough space for him, much less for me. “I’m going to go take a shower,” I say. But he sits down and pulls me into his side, his arm around my shoulders. Matt gives me a look I don’t understand. He doesn’t seem completely pleased by my being there. Did I do something to offend him? But Logan looks down at me and smiles, and then he places his lips against my forehead. Matt gets up and goes to his room but not before shooting me a glance that I couldn’t help but take as a warning.

My favourite quotes, Part Three -- from Michael Connelly's "Harry Bosch" series The Closers Bosch studied the mud-walled structure behind the musician and wondered if Don Francisco Avila had any idea what he was helping to set in motion when he staked his claim to the spot in 1818. A city would grow tall and wide from this place. A city as great as any other. And just as mean. A destination city, a city of invention and reinvention. A place where the dream seemed as easy to reach as the sign they put up on the hill, but a place where the reality was always something different. The road to that sign on the hill had a locked gate across it.

Come, Olivia,” he murmured, tugging her toward the shuttle. “We have very little time. Don’t let Baird’s sacrifice be in vain.” “But…but I don’t want him to sacrifice himself for me.” She was beginning to cry now, unable to help herself. “Please, I don’t want this.” “But he wants it,” Sylvan said gently. “He needs it. Needs to assure himself of your safety. You must be brave for him—stay strong as he is doing for you.” Olivia looked over her shoulder at Baird again as Sylvan folded her gently into shuttle’s the cockpit. He was standing straight and tall, his shoulders thrown back, his eyes blazing. There was no reluctance or fear in his posture, no regret in his stance. Only strength and determination. And love. He’s doing this because he loves me. Even though I resisted him. Even though I never… “Oh God, I never told him I loved him! Sylvan, please—please, I have to go back.” “I’m afraid it’s too late.

Not yet, Baird,” the one beside him cautioned. He was as tall as his friend and just as muscular but he had short, spiky blond hair that complimented his pale blue eyes. “Can’t wait much longer.” Long, strong fingers curled into a fist as though the amber-eyed male could grasp the slender figure in his hand and hold her through sheer force of will. “Been dreaming about her every night, Sylvan. I ache for her.” “What does she look like?” There was genuine curiosity in the question. Though Baird had never seen her outside his dreams, Sylvan had no doubt he could describe his chosen female to the last detail. “So fuckin’ beautiful it hurts to look at her. Yellow hair like yours but longer—more golden. And her eyes…” Baird shook his head. “Like jewels. A pale grey that’s almost silver.” “You find these human women appealing then?” “Only her—she’s the only one I can see.” The amber eyes stared hungrily across the road. “I need her soon. Need to be with her. In her.” “You’re sure she’s the one?” Sylvan stared doubtfully at the woman silhouetted in the window. She was humming softly to herself but despite the distance and the pane of glass between them he could hear her perfectly and knew Baird could too. As attuned as his half brother was to this human female, he could probably hear her heartbeat even from across the street. “I know she’s the one.” There wasn’t a shred of doubt in the deep, rumbling voice. “Didn’t I tell you we’ve been dream-sharing? And her scent…” He inhaled deeply and his dark gold eyes were suddenly half-lidded with desire. “It’s her all right and she’s ripe for bonding. I want her.” “I know you do, but Baird…” The other male shifted from foot to foot uneasily. “You haven’t been back that long—only three days and it’s a miracle you escaped alive. Don’t you think it might be a good idea to wait a while? To take some time to recover?” “Waited long enough,” was the rumbling reply. “Six months in that hell hole and the only thing keeping me alive and sane were the dreams I had of her. I won’t wait any longer—she’s mine, whether she knows it yet or not.” “You’ll scare her,” his half-brother objected. “Human women are frightened enough of us as it is.” “I won’t hurt her. Just need to take her—bond her.

The Kindred were split into three distinct branches, all outcomes of their past genetic trades. There were the Tranq Kindred—a group of males with piercing blue eyes and a double set of short, sharp vestigial fangs. There were rumors that the fangs grew and they bit when they had sex with the female of their choice and other rumors that they could heal any illness with a bite. Liv wasn’t sure how much of that was true and how much was just media hype but the buzz about their sexual habits had earned this group the nickname “Blood Kindred.” Then there were the Twins, a branch of the Kindred in which the males always came in pairs and had to share a woman. No one knew exactly why and they declined to offer an explanation. Some said they were telepathic and needed sex to communicate but that hadn’t been proven—not that anyone had ever gotten a chance to study them. The Kindred as a whole kept strictly to themselves and refused to participate in any kind of scientific research or experiments. So no one really knew anything about the Twin Kindred other than they refused to make love to a woman individually. And then there were the Ragers—also known as the Beast Kindred. Working for so long in a hospital as she went through nursing school, the sight and idea of drawing blood wasn’t frightening to Liv so the Blood Kindred didn’t scare her. And being a twin herself, she wasn’t terribly afraid of the Twin Kindred either. But the Beast Kindred, well…they scared the ever-loving crap out of her. As tall and dominant as the rest of the warrior race, the Beast Kindred were said to have the most unpredictable tempers. Rumor had it that they could go into berserker-like rages when protecting their women, killing anyone that stood in their way no matter how many opposed them. But it was the other rumors, the sexual rumors, which put a lump in Liv’s throat. Besides being filled with animalistic lust, the Beast Kindred were said to have sexual stamina unequaled by anyone. Rumor had it that they could come again and again without going soft and their marathon love-making sessions put even practitioners of tantric sex to shame. Just

How are they hanging, tall, dark, and growly?" "It's too fucking cold for them to be hanging anywhere right now.

Across the road from the lighted window and the slender figure, two pairs of eyes looked on avidly as she moved. One set of eyes was a pale, piercing blue that was almost white and the other set was a warm amber-gold that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the face of a tiger. Neither pair of eyes was human. “Mine.” The low rumbling growl came from the owner of the amber eyes. He was tall, six foot seven at least, with shoulders so broad he would have to turn sidewise to go through most doorways, but he moved silently, with a feral grace that belied his muscular physique. Dark stubble covered his cheeks and chin and matched the thick black hair on his head. “Not

So they went to a place that only they knew-- the mixed-nut forest where the mixed-nut trees grew. As the cubs picked almonds and walnuts, pistachios, too, which Papa Bear claimed as his Thanksgiving due, the entire forest started to lurch. The cubs fell like stones from their top-lofty perch. But they landed not with a bone-jarring bump. They landed instead with a comfortable “whump.” For you see, the cubs had been caught in mid-air in the dumpster-sized paw of a monster-sized bear. It was Bigpaw, of course. The monster HAD come. Talk about scared! The normally talkative cubs were struck dumb. Suffice it to say, Something surprising Happened that day. With a bit of a smile and nary a sound, he gently placed them down on the ground. What a shock! What a surprise! For despite his manner and imposing size, Bigpaw was nice, gentle, and shy-- a friendly, helpful sort of a guy. Those cubs knew what they had to do-- tell that only part of the legend was true. Though he was powerful, fearsome, and tall, the monster called Bigpaw was no monster at all. It was important news, so off they hurried, leaving Bigpaw looking a little worried. “Little cubs! Little cubs! You forgot your mixed nuts!” This certainly was true, no ifs, ands, or buts.

soon enough, the day would come when new recruits claimed the Army no longer examined eyes, just counted them. A conscript had to stand at least five feet tall and weigh 105 pounds; possess twelve or more of his natural thirty-two teeth; and be free of flat feet, venereal disease, and hernias. More than forty of every hundred men were rejected, a grim testament to the toll taken on the nation’s health by the Great Depression.

I walked the short distance to Nogizaka, then strolled up and down Gaienhigashi-dori. It took awhile, but I finally spotted it. There was no sign, only a small red rose on a black awning. The entrance was flanked by two black men, each of sufficient bulk to have been at home in the sumo pit. Their suits were well tailored and, given the size of the men wearing them, must have been custom-made. Nigerians, I assumed, whose size, managerial acumen, and relative facility with the language had made them a rare foreign success story, in this case as both middle management and muscle for many of the area’s entertainment establishments. The mizu shobai, or “water trade” of entertainment and pleasure, is one of the few areas in which Japan can legitimately claim a degree of internationalization. They bowed and opened the club’s double glass doors for me, each issuing a baritone irasshaimase as they did so. Welcome. One of them murmured something into a microphone set discreetly into his lapel. I walked down a short flight of stairs. A ruddy-faced, prosperous-looking Japanese man whom I put at about forty greeted me in a small foyer. Interchangeable J-Pop techno music was playing from the room beyond. “Nanmeisama desho ka?” Mr. Ruddy asked. How many? “Just one,” I said in English, holding up a finger. “Of course.” He motioned that I should follow him. The room was rectangular, flanked by dance stages on either end. The stages were simple, distinguished only by mirrored walls behind them and identical brass poles at their centers. One stage was occupied by a tall, long-haired blonde wearing high heels and a green g-string and nothing more. She was dancing somewhat desultorily, I thought, but seemed to have the attention of the majority of the club’s clientele regardless. Russian, I guessed. Large-boned and large-breasted. A delicacy in Japan. Harry hadn’t mentioned floorshows. Probably he was embarrassed. My sense that something was amiss deepened.

Woman, you are a co-heir of God's grace, a joint inheritor of God's promises, and a equal partner in His kingdom. Don't let anyone diminish your worth or treat you as a second-class citizen. You are a daughter of the King, a princess of the Most High, and a vessel of God's glory. Stand tall, and claim your rightful place in the kingdom of God, where 'there is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus' (Galatians 3:28).

Edgar Bronfman, the multibillionaire heir to the Seagram’s liquor fortune and president of the World Jewish Congress (WJC), “cut a dashing figure – tall, handsome and debonair” (52). In Congressional testimony this liquor salesman turned megalomaniacal diplomat claimed to represent all of world Jewry, the living as well as the dead.

I had come to a realization that most people if no tall who say and claim that they are fighting for black people actually they the ones fighting the black people. They are the hinderance and are fighting everything and everyone who tries to better the lives of the black people. They are stealing from black people. Actually black people the reason they are suffering, poor and their lives not improved or developed. It is because of them .

Blinded, now, in more than one way, Gail made Kaida co-owner and the sole beneficiary of her home, secretly, away from her other daughters and their heirs. Kaida told her children that she and Gail had created a “trust bequest” for them but advised them to keep the secret from the rest of the family. When the Quit Claim Deed was filed in county records, it was returned to Kaida’s name, not to Gail. Unfortunately for the rest of the family, this mother-daughter relationship had become so intertwined and interdependent, it was difficult to see which one was the host tree and which one was the strangler fig. The tree, now grown tall, would bloom in the foreseeable future. Only a death certificate and affidavit needed to be filed in order for Kaida to claim her mother’s full estate.

Each of us searches for happiness, but many of us do not care if our happiness is based on breaking the hearts of others, standing tall over those broken hearts and claiming innocence. Be happy, but do not deceive anyone and break their heart with false promises

and plays on your vulnerabilities — you are not smart or strong or tall enough. Does it claim to be rich in a nutrient or have extra doses of a nutrient? Iron, fibre, protein, vitamin D? Textbook nutritionism (read previous chapter or ask your parents about it once they have read it). Is it giving you a free toy for buying the product or a chance to win an iPhone or an all-expenses paid foreign trip? Illegal in a lot of countries where governments are active in protecting children from the cheap and unethical marketing practices of food companies. Does your favourite movie star or cricketer endorse the product? Truth be told, you are only engaged as a brand ambassador of junk food when you have a fit and agile body. Essentially, it means that you have had the mental and physical discipline to stay away from the very food that you are endorsing. And to tell you a secret, the celebs won’t even consume it on the day of the shoot; they

Afraid to move and give away his nervousness, Zubair was in no hurry. Once most of the other passengers were gone, he retrieved his computer bag and made his way down the narrow stairs to the main body of the plane. He half expected to see a group of men in suits waiting for him, but thankfully there were none. He’d been warned that the Americans had gotten much better at intercepting people who were trying to illegally enter their country. Two female flight attendants with whorish makeup and skirts that were far too short stood by the door. They thanked him for flying Qantas. Despite what his trainers had told him, Zubair ignored the women, refusing to look them in the eye. Fortunately for him his diminutive stature made him seem shy rather than hostile. Zubair was just five and a half feet tall, and weighed a svelte 142 pounds. With his mustache shaved he easily passed for someone five to ten years younger than his twenty-nine years. He stepped into the Jetway, joining the stampede for baggage claim and customs and sandwiched between the business-class and economy customers. The stress of the situation and the heat of the enclosed Jetway triggered the scientist’s sweat glands, sending them into overdrive. Within seconds salty perspiration dampened every inch of his skin. Zubair felt trapped, as if he was on a conveyor belt headed toward his own execution. There was no turning back. Passengers continued to pour off the plane, pushing forward, moving through the confined tunnel toward U.S. Customs agents who would ask probing questions. Zubair suddenly wished he had taken the sedative that they had given him to calm his nerves. He had thrown the pills away at the Sydney airport. Allah would never approve of him taking a mood-altering drug.

Nesta asked, “What is the Wild Hunt?” She’d also told him of their encounter with Lanthys, and the presence of the Autumn Court soldiers. Cassian had convinced Rhys not to engage with them, at least until they could deal with Briallyn. When Rhys had raised his shield around the Prison once more, they’d already vanished. Rhys blew out a breath, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly, I thought it mere myth. That Lanthys remembers such a thing … Well, there’s always room for lying, I suppose, but on the off chance he was telling the truth, that’d make him more than fifteen thousand years old.” Feyre asked, “So what is it, then?” Rhys lifted a hand, and a book of legends from a shelf behind him floated to his fingers. He laid it upon the desk. He flipped it open to a page, revealing an image of a group of tall, strange-looking beings with crowns atop their heads. “The Fae were not the first masters of this world. According to our oldest legends, most now forgotten, we were created by beings who were near-gods—and monsters. The Daglan. They ruled for millennia, and enslaved us and the humans. They were petty and cruel and drank the magic of the land like wine.” Rhys’s eyes flicked to Ataraxia, then to Cassian. “Some strains of the mythology claim that one of the Fae heroes who rose up to overthrow them was Fionn, who was given the great sword Gwydion by the High Priestess Oleanna, who had dipped it into the Cauldron itself. Fionn and Gwydion overthrew the Daglan. A millennium of peace followed, and the lands were divided into rough territories that were the precursors to the courts—but at the end of those thousand years, they were at each other’s throats, on the brink of war.” His face tightened. “Fionn unified them and set himself above them as High King. The first and only High King this land has ever had.

From ‘Kokor Hekkus the Killing Machine’, Chapter IV of The Demon Princes, by Caril Carphen (Elucidarian Press, New Wexford, Aloysius, Vega): If Malagate the Woe can be characterized by the single word ‘grim’ and Howard Alan Treesong by ‘incomprehensible’, then Lens Larque, Viole Falushe and Kokor Hekkus all lay claim to the word ‘fantastic’. Which one exceeds the other two in ‘fantasy’? It is an amusing if profitless speculation. Consider Viole Falushe’s Palace of Love, Lens Larque’s monument, the vast and incredible outrages Kokor Hekkus has visited upon humanity: such extravagances are impossible to comprehend, let alone compare. It is fair to say, however, that Kokor Hekkus has captured the popular imagination with his grotesque and eerie humor. Let us listen to what he has to say in an abstract from the famous telephoned address, The Theory and Practice of Terror, to the students of Cervantes University: “… To produce the maximum effect, one must identify and intensify those basic dreads already existing within the subject. It is a mistake to regard the fear of death as the most extreme fear. I find a dozen other types to be more poignant, such as: The fear of inability to protect a cherished dependent. The fear of disesteem. The fear of noisome contact. The fear of being made afraid. “My goal is to produce a ‘nightmare’ quality of fright, and to maintain it over an appreciable duration. A nightmare is the result of the under-mind exploring its most sensitive areas, and so serves as an index for the operator. Once an apparently sensitive area is located the operator to the best of his ingenuity employs means to emphasize, to dramatize this fear, then augment it by orders of magnitude. If the subject fears heights, the operator takes him to the base of a tall cliff, attaches him to a slender, obviously fragile or frayed cord and slowly raises him up the face of the cliff, not too far and not too close to the face. Scale must be emphasized, together with the tantalizing but infeasible possibility of clinging to the vertical surface. The lifting mechanism should be arranged to falter and jerk. To intensify claustrophobic dread the subject is conveyed into a pit or excavation, inserted head-foremost into a narrow and constricted tunnel which slants downward, and occasionally changes direction by sharp and cramping angles. Whereupon the pit or excavation is filled and subject must proceed ahead, for the most part in a downward direction.

he law is a blunt tool and though it makes tall claims of being objective and neutral, in itself, the law is fragile and will not smash patriarchy. Rather, The courts have always favored the power structure and shielded those who are resourceful. The courtrooms, themselves as a symbol of authority, defend the values of supremacy and protect the oppressive and regressive system. However, those on the margins with their conviction and belief in the values of democracy, justice, and the rule of law, need to shake the system. With individual or through collective action the marginalized are challenging the power structure and are compelling the state and the society to make social and political transformation at a larger level. Angela Davis said that “in a racist society it is not enough to be a non-racist. We must be anti-racist”. Similarly, here it may be derived that `in a patriarchal society, it is not enough to be a non-patriarchal. We must be anti-patriarchy’. The women with their sheer will and conviction are marching ahead to smash patriarchy using law as an instrument of change. However, what is required is the radical interpretation of constitutional values by the courts and this should be strengthened by assuring the equal representation of women within the judiciary at all levels to open up the possibility of nondiscrimination within the patriarchal hostile settings.

I knew exactly what was going on, but I unfortunately didn't have a firearm. (Adam have most likely offered someone 6000 Euros, to end this all, then and there. Tomas. 10%) Only a mini baseball bat. A Louisville Slugger. And Martina’s weapon of choice: a broom. The witches’ vehicle. Before I could tell him to go to Hell, a neighbor exited the building and let the stranger claiming to be from the gas company inside. Now the stranger dressed in black was running up the 94 stairs. I could hear his footsteps approaching. I didn't have time to react, grab the biggest knife from the kitchen, and stand by my entrance door. He was already upstairs, right outside my apartment door. He began knocking loudly and aggressively, whether with his metal ring or a lighter. I looked through the peephole, but he had covered it with a black folder, which I soon realized was an iPad. Covering his face. Covering my eyes. The same speech repeated played through the iPad, ensuring that I wouldn't recognize his voice and open the door. „I am from the gas company, looking for Tomas Adam Nyapi.” He kept playing in a prerecorded voice on the iPad outside my door, "Open up", "It's the gas company", and "We are looking for Tomas Adam Nyapi." I was trying to pay attention and make sense of it all, trying to figure out who it could be. But the Catalan girl couldn't keep quiet and yelled at the person in Spanish with her strong Catalan accent, after a minute or two: "Who are you and what do you want? Go away before I call the police!" Suddenly, the stranger began sprinting down the 94 stairs upon realizing that I wasn't alone. In case the reason for his visit wasn't clear enough. He was running so fast that he nearly stumbled, clearly determined to prevent me from catching up with him. I swung open my door and peered down the stairwell, straining my eyes to discern his identity, but the darkness obscured any details in the vertical tunnel below. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, I hurried to my loggia to catch a glimpse of him. He was tall and thin, with long legs, and his strides were hurried and distinct, unlike anyone else. Deep inside, I knew it was Mario Larese. Mister Twister. I recognized his movements, but it wasn't until 2023 that I had concrete confirmation. An evidence orgy. Mario had been sent to either spy on me or seek revenge for my closure of the club, with him being responsible for triggering the landslide, the avalanche. The mafia had dispatched Mario to finish what he/they had started. With Adam and the rest of them. Mario. Adam. Nico. Ferran. „The Beatles.” „Plus Yoko.” The Nazi junkies had sent him to deliver the final blow, the fatal shot, the kill. It was Mario who was accountable - the thief, the liar, the "Romanian gypsy." To deliver „The Final Solution”, to sever ties. And keep that 60,000 as well of course. Shortly after the stranger (Mario) had left our address Martina called me on the phone.

Cush Polk for one, our JV quarterback, decent as milk, a preacher’s kid from way the hell over by Ewing. Tall, blond, actual red cheeks, the type that still said “Yes ma’am” to teachers. He claimed he got his speed from being youngest in a family of nine, and his mom only ever cooked for eight. And Turp Trussell for another, that once drank a shot of turpentine for purposes that remain unclear. Big clown, built like a brick shithouse, boldness of a bull in rut. Brain of a deer tick, but that’s not something to hold against a running back.

Pisistratus understood the value of publicity and of symbolism. He staged a grand entrance into Athens. He found an unusually tall young woman from a country district. Pisistratus dressed her up in a suit of armor, taught her how to present herself convincingly as a goddess, and drove her in procession into the city. Town criers went ahead shouting: “Men of Athens, give Pisistratus a warm welcome, for Athena herself is bringing him home to her own citadel. She honours him more than all men.” What better way of demonstrating that Pisistratus enjoyed divine approval and had a legitimate claim to rule? Herodotus calls the stunt “the silliest idea I have ever heard of,

You know,” he says after a moment, “I sort of thought that if you ever did show up, it would be to murder me.” “Murder you?” I squeak. “Why?” “You’re the second son now—your title is in jeopardy! Your land! Your inheritance! Your lordly honor! All those things men of your stature care so very much about. Not literal stature. But really—how tall are you?” I must look horrified at his accusations, for he amends, “Don’t worry, I haven’t any interest in my claim. But if you’re so inclined, we’re notoriously bad at locking our doors, and I sleep very soundly. All it would take is a quiet step and a pillow over my head and the job would be done. Consider that advice gratis.” He drains the rest of his coffee, then stands. “So, I suppose I’ll see you then.” “See me when?” “When you come to murder me.” He slings his coat around his shoulders, fishing around for that strange hedgehog hat again. “I’d say it was good to meet you but honestly it’s been really goddamn stressful, so let’s leave it here.” He starts to walk away, then seems to remember his pie, reconsiders, and hefts the entire thing from the table. I’m shocked its weight doesn’t pull him over.

These traces of commonwealth have begun to seem like a secret society, an inverted reality lurking inside what claims to be reality, economies that reject the rules by which the economy supposedly plays. In these traces, even tucked within competitive markets, cooperative advantage holds its ground. Each example pokes a hole in the usual story about how the world came to be as it is, challenging tall tales about progress made from competition and the pursuit of profit. No, there have been other principles at work.

Adamski claimed that he was told that they already had 40,000,000 of their people living here on Earth, men and women who could pass for very tall Scandinavians. These were not just Venusians, but people from numerous populated planets or planetary satellites in this solar system.

Red Rush360” by RedTherapy.co. It’s 360 watts (significantly higher power output than the other lights in this category) and gives a solid power density of about 100mW/cm2 at 6” from the light. (That’s the actual light output, not the claimed power output.) It’s 16.3” tall by about 10.6” wide (slightly larger than the other lights in this category). It has 120 LEDs (twice as many as the Joovv). It comes with a 50-50 split of 660nm and 850nm. They’ve also developed new technology to nearly completely eliminate EMF (electromagnetic fields) emission from their light device, making it extremely safe to use even from very close distances. (They are the only manufacturer to do this, to my knowledge.) The price is excellent at $449. (This is my overall top choice for a light under $500.) Given that it has the highest power output, the broadest coverage area, the most LEDs, a very competitive price, and the lowest EMFs, it is my top choice in this category.

after Stephen Dunn" If you are sleeping when the axe buries itself in the stump outside your home, wake and walk softly through your halls. Walk softly through this house that is like your heart, built in the solace of these woods from things you claimed as your own. Touch everything. Touch it roughly, and think of the heartbeats of the trees giving their lives, each swaying wood grain a skipped beat of gasping titans beneath your hands, your careful eyes, your gentle push, the settling of these quiet things. But your hands are not in this house. Your heart is not in this house. Your love is not in this house. This house was not built from tall, certain things, but from the surest things you could find: roots, nests, not clocks but the parts hidden behind their faces, reminders of belief in always moving forward. One morning you will wake in this home that is like your heart to find that the axe, the certain and the strong, has buried itself in the wet stump outside, you will touch everything roughly, this house will sound no longer like your heart but your heart will sound like this house, built tall from imagined things, high ceilings, echoes, stopped clock pieces, empty nests, gasping roots. Your heart will feel like this house. You will burn it to the ground.

It was over 50 years ago that I had the privilege of being the Class Advisor to the class of 1969 at what was then called Henry Abbott Regional Vocational Technical School. It was another era and a time when we as a nation stood tall. It was the year when Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong and Michael Collins lifted off from Cape Kennedy, for the first manned landing on the Moon. “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” It was a time when we felt proud to be Americans! Fifty years ago the 4 Beatles got together in a recording studio for the last time, where they cut “Abbey Road.” In 1969 alone they published 13 songs including “Yellow Submarine.” John Lennon claimed that the best song he ever did was “Come Together” and that was in 1969. Although it wasn’t possible for me to attend the class reunion I did however connect with them by telephone and a speaker system. I had the opportunity to wish them well and share some thoughts with my former students who are now looking forward to their senior years that I always thought of as “The Youth of Old Age.” Having just celebrated my 85th birthday, 69 years old does seem quite youthful in comparison. Earlier in the week Dave Coelho, the class Vice President read to me the list of graduates that are no longer with us. I was stunned by the number, but at the time the United States was at war, regardless of what it was called. In 1968, the year before the class graduated, our country had a peak of 549,000 of our young people serving in Viet Nam. During the year of the Tet Offensive alone, 543 were killed and 2547 were wounded, and that is what the class of 1969 faced upon their graduation! It was a war in which 57,939 of our young people were killed or went missing! It was nice to talk to the class president LaBarbera and I enjoyed the feeling of guilt when one former student told me that he still has a problem with addition. To this I gladly accepted the blame but reminded him that this would not be of much help, if he had to face the IRS when his taxes didn’t compute. Look for part 2, the conclusion

Does the winner take it all? 
 They say, in the end winner takes it all, The loser has to bear the despair and fall, The winner is there standing tall, And the loser is moving like shadow on the wall, While the winner is welcomed by the loud applause, The loser is still contemplating failure and its emotional clause, Where he feels time and life, in a state of pause, And is awakened by this thunderous applause, Not for him, today, not for him, And a feeling sad takes over him and he feels grim, The lights in the playground of life turn dim, And now nobody, just these faint lights and distant stars look at  him, He stares back at them in the darkness, With a sense of isolation a feeling of aloofness, And then a feeling a freshness and a look of brightness, Descends upon him amidst these moments of darkness, And he believes again, he hopes again, and he stands again, With the will not to surrender, and rise and gain, No matter how much the pain, His moment of applause, his winning moment, his new reign, Of triumph and endless glory, Where he will be the author of his success story, And he competes again, this time to win without seeking glory, Because there is always glory in the winner’s story, So, he runs and he runs, and reaches the finish line, He looks behind and claims, “today victory is mine!” For every failure something is always waiting, always there, the finish line, Only if you are willing to run again, compete again, and not let one  failure define, You, your life or your will to win, For winner may take it all, but he/she can never take your will to  win, The fish will swim, the fish will be happy as long as it manages to  flap its fin, So today let the winner take it all, but tomorrow if you have the will to win, you will win, Let them sing, “the winner takes it all,  The loser is bound to fall,” But the loser will rise again and stand tall, That is when everything else, except him shall lose and fall!

I would have lived in peace. But my enemies brought me war. I watch twelve hundred of their strongest sons and daughters. Listening to a pitiless Golden man speak between great marble pillars. Listening to the beast who brought the flame that gnaws at my heart. “All men are not created equal,” he declares. Tall, imperious, an eagle of a man. “The weak have deceived you. They would say the meek should inherit the Earth. That the strong should nurture the gentle. This is the Noble Lie of Demokracy. The cancer that poisoned mankind.” His eyes pierce the gathered students. “You and I are Gold. We are the end of the evolutionary line. We tower above the flesh heap of man, shepherding the lesser Colors. You have inherited this legacy,” he pauses, studying faces in the assembly. “But it is not free. “Power must be claimed. Wealth won. Rule, dominion, empire purchased with blood. You scarless children deserve nothing. You do not know pain. You do not know what your forefathers sacrificed to place you on these heights. But soon, you will. Soon, we will teach you why Gold rules mankind. And I promise, of those among you, only those fit for power will survive.” But I am no Gold. I am a Red. He thinks men like me weak. He thinks me dumb, feeble, subhuman. I was not raised in palaces. I did not ride horses through meadows and eat meals of hummingbird tongues. I was forged in the bowels of this hard world. Sharpened by hate. Strengthened by love. He is wrong.

In a world that seeks to diminish us, the greatest act of rebellion is to stand tall and claim our power.

A man in the hideous striped pants and top of the Buchenwald prisoner’s uniform—the liberation had been so recent that other clothing was not yet available—now yielded to an inner urge so antic as to chill the onlooker’s blood even more than had the gruesome sights we had just beheld. In health and in normal life he must have been a tall man, and hearty, fiftyish perhaps, and of dignified bearing. A businessman, a lawyer, or of another of the professions. He was stooped now. His shoulders and chest had slumped into his abdomen which was flabby, not fat at all. He resembled a walking withered gourd. In the chaos that followed the liberation of Buchenwald Concentration Camp, and in the scrounging that must have followed upon that, this once sedate and intelligent man had somehow come upon a high silk hat such as men sometimes wear to the opera or to a wedding, or another formal occasion. Perhaps a mischievous serviceman had come upon it, and given it to him. With it was a fine ebony and gold-headed walking stick. The man rubbed the nap of the foolish headgear round and round with the fore-sleeve of his striped and hideous jacket; round and round. He had owned one of these articles of headgear in a former day, and knew how to handle it. Now he clapped it on his head at a rakish angle. He had got hold of a cigarette. He was shoeless. Thus accoutered, puffing the cigarette and flicking the ash elegantly, gold-headed cane in hand, he stepped down the dusty road toward the city of Weimar and its burghers who had claimed to be quite unaware of the presence of this man and millions like him; and of the stinking gas chambers and the ovens so near the lovely city of Weimar. You knew that this man now was bereft of the dignity and sense which once had been his. He was grinning as he walked, but the face had, too, a kind of noble decency and you could no longer watch as the grotesque figure padded down the road in its futile gesture of defiance.