Tone Tag For Quotes

Clay, if anyone followed anyone, it was me tagging along after you. I didn’t dare order you around.” “Load of shit,” he muttered, but she thought she heard a softening in his tone. “You fucking made me attend tea parties.” She remembered his threat before the first one: “Tell anyone and I’ll eat you and use your bones as toothpicks.” ~ Talin and Clay dialogue

There has been no single influence which has done more to prevent man from finding God and rebuilding his character, has done more to lower the moral tone of society than the denial of personal guilt. This repudiation of man’s personal responsibility for his action is falsely justified in two ways: by assuming that man is only an animal and by giving a sense of guilt the tag “morbid.

You know,” she said, and from her tone he knew something was coming, “I used to wonder how come you never brought any trouts home. Always said you caught plenty. So one time I got your creel case open the night before you went on one a your little trips—price tag still on it after five years—and I tied a note on the end of the line. It said, ‘Hello, Ennis, bring some fish home, love, Alma.’ And then you come back and said you’d caught a bunch a browns and ate them up. Remember? I looked in the case when I got a chance and there was my note still tied there and that line hadn’t touched water in its life.” As though the word “water” had called out its domestic cousin, she twisted the faucet, sluiced the plates.

Yet in 2012, he returned. Plenty of the speechwriters were livid. The club was the embodiment of everything we had promised to change. Was it really necessary to flatter these people, just because they were powerful and rich? In a word, yes. In fact, thanks to the Supreme Court, the rich were more powerful than ever. In 2010, the court’s five conservative justices gutted America’s campaign finance laws in the decision known as Citizens United. With no more limits to the number of attack ads they could purchase, campaigns had become another hobby for the ultrawealthy. Tired of breeding racehorses or bidding on rare wines at auction? Buy a candidate instead! I should make it clear that no one explicitly laid out a strategy regarding the dinner. I never asked point-blank if we hoped to charm billionaires into spending their billions on something other than Mitt Romney’s campaign. That said, I knew it couldn’t hurt. Hoping to mollify the one-percenters in the audience, I kept the script embarrassingly tame. I’ve got about forty-five more minutes on the State of the Union that I’d like to deliver tonight. I am eager to work with members of Congress to be entertaining tonight. But if Congress is unwilling to cooperate, I will be funny without them. Even for a politician, this was weak. But it apparently struck the right tone. POTUS barely edited the speech. A few days later, as a reward for a job well done, Favs invited me to tag along to a speechwriting-team meeting with the president. I had not set foot in the Oval Office since my performance of the Golden Girls theme song. On that occasion, President Obama remained behind his desk. For larger gatherings like this one, however, he crossed the room to a brown leather armchair, and the rest of us filled the two beige sofas on either side. Between the sofas was a coffee table. On the coffee table sat a bowl, which under George W. Bush had contained candy but under Obama was full of apples instead. Hence the ultimate Oval Office power move: grab an apple at the end of a meeting, polish it on your suit, and take a casual chomp on your way out the door. I would have sooner stuck my finger in an electrical socket. Desperate not to call attention to myself, I took the seat farthest away and kept my eyes glued to my laptop. I allowed myself just one indulgence: a quick peek at the Emancipation Proclamation. That’s right, buddy. Look who’s still here. It was only at the very end of the meeting, as we rose from the surprisingly comfy couches, that Favs brought up the Alfalfa dinner. The right-wing radio host Laura Ingraham had been in the audience, and she was struck by the president’s poise. “She was talking about it this morning,” Favs told POTUS. “She said, ‘I don’t know if Mitt Romney can beat him.

Honey, you can’t call dibs on a human being.” Her tone rose high enough to shatter glass. “Like calling something mine makes it so, because if it did, I’d be driving around town in a Porsche instead of Granddaddy’s broken down Ford. Ain’t nothing here that was yours.” Using the tray, she backed him against the office door. “Anything you left behind is at the DAV thrift store. They put a price tag on things, and let me tell you, yours wasn’t worth much.

Let me get it,” he says, standing much too close for my comfort. It’s downright suffocating. “Not a chance, darlin’,” I drawl, giving him a dose of his own medicine. I hand the youngish sales lady my tags and bury my gaze inside my purse in search of my wallet. When I look up, I find a loopy smile on her face and it’s directed at him. The happy bastard smiles right back. “Are you two done? Can I pay for these, or would you like to go on a date before you ring me up?” They both turn to stare. She’s cherry red and pushing all the wrong buttons on the register while Dane’s busy scowling at me. I hand her my credit card without taking my eyes off of him. “Did I do something to you, Stella?” The thing is, I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at myself. I cannot believe that I allowed myself to fall under his spell. I don’t blame the sales girl either. She never stood a chance under the magnetic force that is Dane Wylder. I fell for it and I’ve been vaccinated against this particular virulent disease. I have Paul Donovan to thank for that. Turning back to the sales person, I take the receipt she hands me. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Hormones––they’re wreaking havoc.” “Oh, I get the same way when I get my period,” she replies in the sweetest drawl. “Thanks for your help,” I tell her in an apologetic tone. With that I walk away from the counter, and the two of them. A second later a big hand grabs a hold of my upper arm. I stop and turn, my expression not a happy one. “You didn’t answer me?” “No, Dane. You did nothing. Like I said, it’s the hormones.” He looks pensive, his sexy lips pursed as he’s mulling this over. “We should get you some ice cream.” I don’t know whether to laugh, or cry. He genuinely thinks ice cream is the solution to our problem? Then again he doesn’t have a problem. I’m the one with the urge. I’m the one with the craving. Unless ice cream comes in a flavor called Sweaty Sex With Dane, I don’t want it…and about as smart as jumping out of a plane with no parachute. The ride will be fast and thrilling and most certainly prove painful when I hit bottom. “What does ice cream have to do with it?” “Maybe it’ll make you nicer. You know, take the edge off.” My eyes automatically narrow. “Maybe we need to give each other space.” “No,” he huffs, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, his shirt straining against the swell of his pecs, expression locked in the determined position. “No?” “No. No space. I see what you’re doing here. This is some kinda female mental jujitsu. You say you want space, but you don’t really want it.” I’m seconds from punching him in the nut sac, which is almost directly in my line of sight. There is something to be said about being short. Or for him being grotesquely tall. “I…I’m going to…I can’t.” I flee to the cosmetics department in search of the Holy Grail, a flat iron, before I do or say something I’ll regret. And find one. Thank the Lord. This goes a small way to propping up my mood. I’m almost tempted to purchase two.

seeing pictures of pretty clothes in Jackie magazine that she’d never be able to buy. She’d hated seeing adverts for summer holidays on the telly, in far off places they’d never be able to visit. She hated seeing the Queen giving her ruddy speech from her golden palace, the likes of which she’d never know. What made them so much better? Soon enough, she’d realised that all those people she envied weren’t better, they were just smarter. They’d educated themselves and taken whatever chances came their way, to get ahead in life. The problem was, she didn’t even have GCEs. That’s when she’d enrolled in night school, and Simon had tagged along too. She’d always been the one to push him on, she thought, with a sad little sigh. “Looks like she’s going to pull through,” Mike said, interrupting her reverie. Everything about her husband was an irritant, and had been since they were children knocking about in the playground. Michael Emerson had been a poser all his life; a flirt, a braggart, a man other men tolerated but did not necessarily like. Living with him had been a penance, and she’d paid it for long enough. “I want a divorce,” she said, very clearly. She heard his shocked intake of breath, and he shifted in the driver’s seat to look at her. “What?” he blustered. “What are you talking about?” “Oh, come on, Mike. You know there’s nothing between us. There hasn’t been for a long time.” Ever. He sat in absolute silence for long, tense seconds as she stared out of the windscreen and watched a light drizzle coat the glass. “You haven’t thought this through,” he said, but didn’t bother to argue with the sentiment. His girlfriend had been asking for him to get a divorce for months, now, but he’d never actually planned to go through with it. Their lives were too entwined. Too dependent. “You need me,” he said, simply. “It’ll look bad for your next campaign.” Sally laughed. “I need you?” she said bitterly, but stopped herself from launching into a tirade, not wanting to go too far. “Listen, Mike. This can work for both of us,” she said, in a placatory tone. “We can sell up and share the proceeds. We can still work together as business partners.” “Oh, aye,” he said. “What about your new partner? What would he have to say about that?” Sally said nothing. “Well, he needs me too. You both do,” Mike said, arrogantly, and turned the

The men know there’s no leave this first week-end. But there’s a chap here wants to make a special application for leave. Personal grounds, he says. I told him no show, but he has asked to see you. Determined sort of beggar.’ ‘All right,’ the Colonel said. ‘The sooner I get to know them the better. Send him in. Who is he, anyway?’ ‘His name’s Upham. In A Company. I’ll get him.’ Charles Upham was brought in, uneasy at the formality of his intrusion. ‘All right, stand at ease, Upham,’ Kippenberger said. ‘The R.S.M. tells me you are asking for leave. There’s no leave being granted, you know, except in special circumstances. What’s your trouble?’ ‘Well,’ Upham replied hesitantly, ‘it’s not exactly trouble. I just want to get leave for personal reasons.’ And he looked straight ahead at the wall behind Kippenberger’s head. Adjutant Davis studied the man as he stood there. Rather an unkempt individual, he thought. Hardly the usual product of Christ’s College. A rugged-looking face. He noticed the eyes too—intense, rather chilling eyes. The C.O. said: ‘Well, I’m sorry, Upham, but you’ll have to tell me the personal reasons before I can consider it. What’s the matter?’ Upham hesitated again; then spoke suddenly: ‘I want to give a chap a hiding; that’s all.’ There was a short, rather surprised pause. Kippenberger found it necessary to adopt a more than usually solemn tone to control his startled amusement. ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve heard that one,’ he said. ‘But go on, Upham. Tell me more about it.’ Upham turned his eyes on the Colonel. ‘I sold a man a car,’ he said. ‘He owes me £12 10s. on it and he says he’s not going to pay it. If I don’t get my money I’m going to take it out of his hide.’ The Colonel looked interested. ‘Do you know where he is?’ Yes, at the Grosvenor Hotel in Timaru.’ Kippenberger looked hard at Upham. Then he decided. ‘Yes, Upham,’ he said, ‘you can have your leave. There’ll be only one tag to it—when you get back I want you to report personally to me. Understand?’ Upham nodded shortly. ‘Yes, sir. And thank you, sir.’ R.S.M. Steele marched him out. Kippenberger chuckled, then thumbed through the cards again till he found Upham’s. He re-read the details on it. ‘You know,’ he said to Davis, ‘that chap’s got something. But he’s not a bit like his father. Old Johnny Upham is a very respectable sort of family lawyer. This chap looks as if he’d be happier in the mountains than a lawyer’s office.

Endometriosis, or painful periods? (Endometriosis is when pieces of the uterine lining grow outside of the uterine cavity, such as on the ovaries or bowel, and cause painful periods.) Mood swings, PMS, depression, or just irritability? Weepiness, sometimes over the most ridiculous things? Mini breakdowns? Anxiety? Migraines or other headaches? Insomnia? Brain fog? A red flush on your face (or a diagnosis of rosacea)? Gallbladder problems (or removal)? — PART E — Poor memory (you walk into a room to do something, then wonder what it was, or draw a blank midsentence)? Emotional fragility, especially compared with how you felt ten years ago? Depression, perhaps with anxiety or lethargy (or, more commonly, dysthymia: low-grade depression that lasts more than two weeks)? Wrinkles (your favorite skin cream no longer works miracles)? Night sweats or hot flashes? Trouble sleeping, waking up in the middle of the night? A leaky or overactive bladder? Bladder infections? Droopy breasts, or breasts lessening in volume? Sun damage more obvious, even glaring, on your chest, face, and shoulders? Achy joints (you feel positively geriatric at times)? Recent injuries, particularly to wrists, shoulders, lower back, or knees? Loss of interest in exercise? Bone loss? Vaginal dryness, irritation, or loss of feeling (as if there were layers of blankets between you and the now-elusive toe-curling orgasm)? Lack of juiciness elsewhere (dry eyes, dry skin, dry clitoris)? Low libido (it’s been dwindling for a while, and now you realize it’s half or less than what it used to be)? Painful sex? — PART F — Excess hair on your face, chest, or arms? Acne? Greasy skin and/or hair? Thinning head hair (which makes you question the justice of it all if you’re also experiencing excess hair growth elsewhere)? Discoloration of your armpits (darker and thicker than your normal skin)? Skin tags, especially on your neck and upper torso? (Skin tags are small, flesh-colored growths on the skin surface, usually a few millimeters in size, and smooth. They are usually noncancerous and develop from friction, such as around bra straps. They do not change or grow over time.) Hyperglycemia or hypoglycemia and/or unstable blood sugar? Reactivity and/or irritability, or excessively aggressive or authoritarian episodes (also known as ’roid rage)? Depression? Anxiety? Menstrual cycles occurring more than every thirty-five days? Ovarian cysts? Midcycle pain? Infertility? Or subfertility? Polycystic ovary syndrome? — PART G — Hair loss, including of the outer third of your eyebrows and/or eyelashes? Dry skin? Dry, strawlike hair that tangles easily? Thin, brittle fingernails? Fluid retention or swollen ankles? An additional few pounds, or 20, that you just can’t lose? High cholesterol? Bowel movements less often than once a day, or you feel you don’t completely evacuate? Recurrent headaches? Decreased sweating? Muscle or joint aches or poor muscle tone (you became an old lady overnight)? Tingling in your hands or feet? Cold hands and feet? Cold intolerance? Heat intolerance? A sensitivity to cold (you shiver more easily than others and are always wearing layers)? Slow speech, perhaps with a hoarse or halting voice? A slow heart rate, or bradycardia (fewer than 60 beats per minute, and not because you’re an elite athlete)? Lethargy (you feel like you’re moving through molasses)? Fatigue, particularly in the morning? Slow brain, slow thoughts? Difficulty concentrating? Sluggish reflexes, diminished reaction time, even a bit of apathy? Low sex drive, and you’re not sure why? Depression or moodiness (the world is not as rosy as it used to be)? A prescription for the latest antidepressant but you’re still not feeling like yourself? Heavy periods or other menstrual problems? Infertility or miscarriage? Preterm birth? An enlarged thyroid/goiter? Difficulty swallowing? Enlarged tongue? A family history of thyroid problems?