Townhouse Quotes

God! You'll do anything to avoid it.' Avoid what?' my mother said. The past,' Caroline said. 'Our past. I'm tired of acting like nothing ever happened, of pretending he was never here, of not seeing his pictures in the house, or his things Just because you're not able to let yourself grieve.' Don't,' my mother said, her voice low, 'talk to me about grief. You have no idea.' I do, though.' Caroline's voice caught, and she swallowed. 'I'm not trying to hide that I'm sad. I'm not trying to forget. You hide here behind all these plans for houses and townhouses because they're new and perfect and don't remind you of anything.' Stop it,' my mother said. And look at Macy,' Caroline continued, ignoring this.' Do you even know what you're doing to her?' My mother looked at me, and I shrank back, trying to stay out of this. 'Macy is fine,' my mother said. No, she's not. God you always say that, but she's not.' Caroline looked at me, as if she wanted me to jump in, but I just sat there. 'Have you even been paying the least bit of attention to what's going on with her? She's been miserable since Dad died, pushing herself so hard to please you. And then, this summer, she finally finds some friends and something she likes to do. But then one tiny slipup, and you take it all away from her.' That has nothing to do with what we're talking about,' my mother said. It has everything to do with it,' Caroline shot back. 'She was finally getting over what happened. Couldn't you see the change in her? I could, and I was berely here. She was different.' Exactly,' my mother said. 'She was-' Happy,' Caroline finished for her. 'She was starting to live her life again, and it scared you. Just like me redoing the beach house scares you. You think you're so strong becasue you never talk about Dad. Anyone can hide. Facing up to things, working through them, that's what makes you strong.

Actually, my brother’s in town,” Tim replied casually, not looking up from his laptop. “He’s staying with me at my townhouse.” “Why are you here working then?” Lucas asked incredulously. “Because my brother is in town and staying with me at my townhouse,” he repeated in the exact same tone.

On May 26th, 2003, Aaron Ralston was hiking, a boulder fell on his right hand, he waited four days, he then amputated his own arm with a pocketknife. On New Year’s Eve, a woman was bungee jumping, the cord broke, she fell into a river and had to swim back to land in crocodile-infested waters with a broken collarbone. Claire Champlin was smashed in the face by a five-pound watermelon being propelled by a slingshot. Mathew Brobst was hit by a javelin. David Striegl was actually punched in the mouth by a kangaroo. The most amazing part of these stories is when asked about the experience they all smiled, shrugged and said “I guess things could’ve been worse.” So go ahead, tell me you’re having a bad day. Tell me about the traffic. Tell me about your boss. Tell me about the job you’ve been trying to quit for the past four years. Tell me the morning is just a townhouse burning to the ground and the snooze button is a fire extinguisher. Tell me the alarm clock stole the keys to your smile, drove it into 7 am and the crash totaled your happiness. Tell me. Tell me how blessed are we to have tragedy so small it can fit on the tips of our tongues. When Evan lost his legs he was speechless. When my cousin was assaulted she didn’t speak for 48 hours. When my uncle was murdered, we had to send out a search party to find my father’s voice. Most people have no idea that tragedy and silence often have the exact same address. When your day is a museum of disappointments, hanging from events that were outside of your control, when you feel like your guardian angel put in his two weeks notice two months ago and just decided not to tell you, when it seems like God is just a babysitter that’s always on the phone, when you get punched in the esophagus by a fistful of life. Remember, every year two million people die of dehydration. So it doesn’t matter if the glass is half full or half empty. There’s water in the cup. Drink it and stop complaining. Muscle is created by lifting things that are designed to weigh us down. When your shoulders are heavy stand up straight and call it exercise. Life is a gym membership with a really complicated cancellation policy. Remember, you will survive, things could be worse, and we are never given anything we can’t handle. When the whole world crumbles, you have to build a new one out of all the pieces that are still here. Remember, you are still here. The human heart beats approximately 4,000 times per hour and each pulse, each throb, each palpitation is a trophy, engraved with the words “You are still alive.” You are still alive. So act like it.

Devon just about skipped from his brother’s townhouse to Brooks. The sun was shining, and the birds were singing, and even the horses moved their arses out of Devon’s way to shit.

Spirit dancing, I envisioned a place inside this energetic city, ours: a classic townhouse on a steep street with expansive views of the Pacific, the magenta siding sun-faded—a third-story perch, thick platinum haze embracing our new home.

I could see similar townhouses on the opposite side of the street. There were six of them in a row, and the front of each had been painted a slightly different colour, to prevent a resident climbing the wrong steps and entering a neighbour’s house by mistake.

Orin's special conscious horror, besides heights and the early morning, is roaches. There'd been parts of metro Boston near the Bay he'd refused to go to, as a child. Roaches give him the howling fantods. The parishes around N.O. had been having a spate or outbreak of a certain Latin-origin breed of sinister tropical flying roaches, that were small and timid but could fucking fly, and that kept being found swarming on New Orleans infants, at night, in their cribs, especially infants in like tenements or squalor, and that reportedly fed on the mucus in the babies' eyes, some special sort of optical-mucus — the stuff of fucking nightmares, mobile flying roaches that wanted to get at your eyes, as an infant — and were reportedly blinding them; parents'd come in in the ghastly A.M.-tenement light and find their infants blind, like a dozen blinded infants that last summer; and it was during this spate or nightmarish outbreak, plus July flooding that sent over a dozen nightmarish dead bodies from a hilltop graveyard sliding all gray-blue down the incline Orin and two teammates had their townhouse on, in suburban Chalmette, shedding limbs and innards all the way down the hillside's mud and one even one morning coming to rest against the post of their roadside mailbox, when Orin came out for the morning paper, that Orin had had his agent put out the trade feelers.

One day we’ll all be dead and none of this will matter.

...the townhouses looked bedraggled, unkempt, like an old homeless woman with an interesting history but a perilous future.

❝Now we lived together in a townhouse with a pet fish and a rooftop movie theater, and we were nauseatingly, disgustingly blissful.❞

In a large townhouse, a family is spread out across its rooms, each living in their own state but under one flag

His gaze widened, then taking in the entirety of the camp. All these people: they were trapped. And not merely by the wires that surrounded them. Physical barricades were nothing compared to the wires of the mind. What had truly imprisoned them was one another. Husbands and wives, parents and children, friends and companions: what they believed had given them strength in their lives had actually done the opposite. Guilder recalled the couple who lived across the street from his townhouse, trading off their sleeping daughter on the way to the car. How heavy that burden must have felt in their arms. And when the end swept down upon them all, they would exit the world on a wave of suffering, their agonies magnified a million times over by the loss of her. Would they have to watch her die? Would they perish first, knowing what would become of her in their absence? Which was preferable? But the answer was neither. Love had sealed their doom. Which was what love did.

At this point, a social flaw that always existed with regard to the [Roman] aristocrats in their townhouses became more evident. No longer finding urban life as secure and amenable as in the early empire, the landed rich gave primacy not to their urban mansions but to their country estates, making the latter their principal residences. The dominant forces in urban life increasingly became the bishops and cathedral clergy.

In his fitful eastward progress through Belgium and Germany that winter, my grandfather had shared all manner of billets: with dogfaces and officers, in misery and in comfort, in attack and in retreat, and pinned down by snow or German ordnance. He had bedded down under a bearskin in a schloss and in foxholes flecked pink with the tissue of previous occupants. If an hour's sleep were to be had, he seized it, in the bedrooms or basements of elegant townhouses, in ravaged hotels, on clean straw and straw that crawled with vermin, on featherbeds and canvas webbing slung across the bed of a half-truck, on mud, sandbags, and raw pine planks. However wretched, accommodations were always better or no worse than those on the enemy side.

This is the kind of education that Donald Trump never bothered to get before becoming president. Although he lived and worked for decades only a few blocks from the Council’s headquarters in an elegant Upper East Side townhouse, he never showed any interest in its work or in US foreign policy more broadly. Even as president he has never once visited a war zone. He loves military symbols—hence his desire for a military parade in Washington—but shows no understanding of how the armed forces actually operate.

He's so lonely and such a gentleman. The old-fashioned kind, who would gladly fight a duel over you. He'll buy you a townhouse here, darling, and just fly up every month or so for some medical conference, take you to the best parties, and then fuck you to oblivion in the den afterward.

I poked fun at rich friends growling about the unfairness of the Electoral College over a dinner at Spago that cost thousands of dollars, and took Meryl Streep to task for her outraged anti-Trump speech at the Golden Globes the same week she’d put her Greenwich Village townhouse on the market for thirty million dollars.

How could you live somewhere so icy cold and imposing, so clearly in conflict with the rest of the city, the rest of the human population, and stay in love? As far as I can tell, love takes place in townhouses and cozy cottages and cramped studio apartments and rundown guest houses. This place might as well be an office building or a spaceship.

Integrating the beauty of seasonal change into the residence was a concept that remains true even today even in the more cramped, inner city machiya.

Sometimes nothing is the very best thing one can do.

But you felt safe.” “What sort of safe?” “Safe for me. Safe from harm. Every kind of safe.

That one day you will be happy again. Your life will get better.

I do not believe in demons," I said, mostly to reassure myself that I had not, in fact, witnessed what I had seen. Churchill laughed. "I don't think he cares, old man.

One half of the flowers had petals of an unearthly emerald green, which seemed to glow with their own whimsical sort of light. The other half were airy and insubstantial—and as she marvelled at them, Dora realised that they were crafted entirely from a silver-grey smoke which seemed to waver in the drafty air of the townhouse. The flowers were, she thought, the exact colour of her eyes.

Life was getting dark around the edges. It was like he was moving through a tunnel that was becoming narrower and blacker and more choked and airless, and soon there would be nothing left for him to breathe and no room for him to move.

Algernon generally occupied the baronet's disused town-house, a wretched being, dividing his time between horse and card exercise: possessed, it was said, of the absurd notion that a man who has lost his balance by losing his leg may regain it by sticking to the bottle.

Do not do this to us,” her mother begged, coming out of the drawing room. “I will not marry Henry,” Scarlett repeated. “How can you ask me to? You would see me marry a man I loathe? A known abuser of women, all to keep what?” Scarlett asked, softening her voice. “It’s what your father wants. What the family needs.” Her mother lifted her chin. “We’ve cut the staff. We’ve sold most of the land at Ashby. We’ve economized the last few years. We all make sacrifices.” “But in this case, you’d like to sacrifice me, and I’ll not have it. Goodbye, Mother.” She walked out of the townhouse and sucked in a shaky breath.

The Howeitat spread out along the cliffs to return the peasants' fire. This manner of going displeased Auda, the old lion, who raged that a mercenary village folk should dare to resist their secular masters, the Abu Tayi. So he jerked his halter, cantered his mare down the path, and rode out plain to view beneath the easternmost houses of the village. There he reined in, and shook a hand at them, booming in his wonderful voice: 'Dogs, do you not know Auda?' When they realized it was that implacable son of war their hearts failed them, and an hour later Sherif Nasir in the town-house was sipping tea with his guest the Turkish Governor, trying to console him for the sudden change of fortune.

God, yes. Please kiss me.” He does slam into me then. Half lifting me to press me into the hallway wall, whooshing the breath from my body and his lips at first travel along the pulse in my throat and move up to steal the breath out of me. We kiss as though it’s all we want to do in the world. His taste blooms through me, jig-sawing his lust to my own until I can’t see through the arousal I feel for him. We’re panting when we part, but not too far. My fingers in his hair restrict him from moving from my mouth and I moan for more. He grins at my neediness. “Do you have a preference, cara, bed or the couch in the den?” I blink. Assaulted with his scent, it’s a wonder I still know my own name having him this close. Gabriella. See, I do know it. “What?” “You’re right,” he says with a grunt to his tone, striding off with me in his arms and he takes a swift left and down another hallway before climbing his townhouse stairs two at a time to the next level. “The bed is more spacious; I need room for what I want to do to you. We’ll get around to the couch when I don’t want to fucking eat you alive.” Oh Oh. My whole being flatlines. “Dominic.” I sound like one of those breathy hussies, but I can’t help it. With a few words and the way his two hands are squeezing my butt, I’m on fire for him. He rushes his mouth against my neck, striding down a long white hallway upstairs. “I know, cara. I fucking know, hold on for a minute more.

They were planning some sort of real estate development on the edge of the city—probably on that few acres of pasture out back of the Waterhouse residence. They would put up town-houses around the edges, make the center into a square, and along the square Sterling would put up shops. Rich people would move in, and the Waterhouses and their confederates would control a patch of land that would probably generate more rent than any thousand square miles of Ireland—basically, they would become farmers of rich people.

Just as abruptly, he'd become a father. While preparing the book for publication, he'd been dating a woman named Sarah Coowe, an infectious-disease specialist at MGH. They were evenly matched in many ways: sharp-dressed, sharp-tongued, and devoted to their careers and personal freedoms to the exclusion of any serious interest in so-called romance. They spent ten months together. A few weeks after they broke up -- Sarah initiated the split -- she called to say that she was pregnant. "It's mine?" asked Affenlight. "He or she," replied Sarah, "is mostly mine." They named the child Pella -- that was Affenlight's idea, though Sarah certainly had the final say. For those first couple of years, Affenlight conspired as often as he could to show up at Sarah and Pella's Kendall Square townhouse with expensive takeout and a new toy. He was fascinated with his daughter, with the sheer reality of her, a beautiful something where before there'd been nothing. He hated kissing her good-bye; and yet he relished, couldn't keep himself from relishing, the total quiet of his townhouse when he walked in, the scattered books and papers and lack of baby-proofing.

Almost unconsciously, his gaze shifted across the immense ballroom to fasten on the girl, inexorably pulled to her like metal filings to a magnet. He could barely make her out since she was surrounded by her usual jostling court of ardent admirers, most of them titled, wealthy, and considerably handsomer than Nigel. If he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit that obsession would be the most accurate description of his feelings, and he hadn’t the slightest notion as to when or how that obsession had developed. However it had happened, over the last several months a ridiculous amount of space in his skull had been taken up by thoughts of lovely Amelia Easton. Fortunately, until now, none of his acquaintances had suspected that he—the most sensible man in the ton—had succumbed to such a maudlin, hopeless passion. A hopeless passion, since Amelia Easton would no sooner marry a man like Nigel than she would a butcher from Smithfield. After all, she was widely acknowledged as one of the great prizes on the matrimonial mart—beautiful, kind, good-natured, and disgustingly rich, or at least her father was. It was a most potent combination, and meant that the girl couldn’t step foot outside her family’s Mayfair townhouse without a pack of slavering bachelors in pursuit. “How

Daniel was slow to take up the cheer. But when he did, he meant it. This was politics. It was ugly, it was irrational, but it was preferable to war. Roger was being cheered because he had won. What did it mean to win? It meant being cheered. So Daniel huzzahed, as lustily as his dry pipes and creaky ribs would permit, and was astounded to see the way people came a-running: not only the Quality from their town-houses, but hooligans and Vagabonds from bonfire-strewn fields to the north, to throng around Roger and cheer him. Not because they agreed with his positions, or even knew who he was, but because he was plainly enough the man of the hour.

Well you know who's whereabouts is rather important to me," Richard said stiffly. and then pointed out, "And I wouldn't have had to wake you from a dead slumber to find out where he is if you hadn't left without me last night." Daniel dropped into the nearest seat with disgust. You know who was George, of course. They had been calling him that sine this conversation started just in case they were overheard by a servant. Scowling irritably at Richard now, he asked, "Well, what else was I do to? Sit about in my carriage while you gave you know who's wife a tumble." Richard stiffened. "She is my wife, thank you very much." Daniel snorted and said dryly, "My, we've changed our tune this morning, have we not? Last night you weren't at all sure you wanted to keep her." "Yes,well,I hardly have a choice now. I've-" He paused and scowled. "How the devil did you know I tumbled her?" Daniel raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Was it supposed to be a secret? If so, you shouldn't have done it in the front window for anyone on the street to see." Richar'd eyes widened in horrified realization and he simply stood for the longest time, until Daniel was irritated enough to prompt, "Well?" Richard blinked as if awaking from a dream and asked, uncertainly, "Well, what?" "Are you really planning to keep her?" Daniel asked with exasperation. Richard sighed and moved to settle in a chair himself before confessing, "She was a virgin until last night." Daniel blew out a silent whistle. "That was very remiss of you know who." Richard merely grunted. He looked pretty miserable, but Daniel wasn't feeling much sympathy at the moment. Aside from having had to deal with George's body on his own, he'd left the Radnor townhouse with aching balls and an erection that could have been mistaken for a pistol in his pocket. Richard on the other hand, had apparently had a jolly good time with his dead brother's not quite wife depending on how you looked at it. A woman, Daniel recalled, who disliked her "husband" intensely and had been obviously soused and, accoring to Richard, had still been a virgin. Daniel didn't like to think that Richard had taken advantage of the woman; he wasn't the sort to do that. However, he was having trouble seeing how it had come to pass. "So," Daniel said finally, "after a year of misery with you know who, whom she thought was you, she just forgave all and fell into your arms last night?" Guilt immediately filled Richard's expression. He scrubbed at his face as if trying to wipe away the feeling, and then sighed and muttered with self-disgust. "I took advantage of an inebriated woman.

an idle threat, for Nuri Said with the guns had gone back to Guweira. There were only one hundred and eighty Turks in the village, but they had supporters in the Muhaisin, a clan of the peasantry; not for love so much as because Dhiab, the vulgar head-man of another faction, had declared for Feisal. So they shot up at Nasir a stream of ill-directed bullets. The Howeitat spread out along the cliffs to return the peasants' fire. This manner of going displeased Auda, the old lion, who raged that a mercenary village folk should dare to resist their secular masters, the Abu Tayi. So he jerked his halter, cantered his mare down the path, and rode out plain to view beneath the easternmost houses of the village. There he reined in, and shook a hand at them, booming in his wonderful voice: 'Dogs, do you not know Auda?' When they realized it was that implacable son of war their hearts failed them, and an hour later Sherif Nasir in the town-house was sipping tea with his guest the Turkish Governor, trying to console him for the sudden change of fortune. At dark Mastur rode in. His Motalga looked blackly at their blood enemies the Abu Tayi, lolling in the best houses. The two Sherifs divided up the place, to keep their unruly followers apart. They had little authority to mediate

Christopher Cerf has been composing songs for Sesame Street for twenty-five years. His large Manhattan townhouse is full of Sesame Street memorabilia – photographs of Christopher with his arm around Big Bird, etc. ‘Well, it’s certainly not what I expected when I wrote them,’ Christopher said. ‘I have to admit, my first reaction was, “Oh my gosh, is my music really that terrible?” ’ I laughed. ‘I once wrote a song for Bert and Ernie called “Put Down The Ducky”,’ he said, ‘which might be useful for interrogating members of the Ba’ath Party.’ ‘That’s very good,’ I said. ‘This interview,’ Christopher said, ‘has been brought to you by the letters W, M and D.’ ‘That’s very good,’ I said. We both laughed. I paused. ‘And do you think that the Iraqi prisoners, as well as giving away vital information, are learning new letters and numbers?’ I said. ‘Well, wouldn’t that be an incredible double win?’ said Christopher. Christopher took me upstairs to his studio to play me one of his Sesame Street compositions, called ‘Ya! Ya! Das Is a Mountain!’ ‘The way we do Sesame Street,’ he explained, ‘is that we have educational researchers who test whether these songs are working, whether the kids are learning. And one year they asked me to write a song to explain what a mountain is, and I wrote a silly yodelling song about what a mountain was.’ Christopher sang me a little of the song: Oompah-pah! Oompah-pah! Ya! Ya! Das is a mountain! Part of zee ground zat sticks way up high! ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘forty per cent of the kids had known what a mountain was before they heard the song, and after they heard the song, only about twenty-six per cent knew what a mountain was. That’s all they needed. You don’t know what a mountain is now, right? It’s gone! So I figure if I have the power to suck information out of people’s brains by writing these songs, maybe that’s something that could be useful to the CIA for brainwashing techniques.’ Just then, Christopher’s phone rang. It was a lawyer from his music publishers, BMI. I listened into Christopher’s side of the conversation: ‘Oh really?’ he said. ‘I see . . . Well, theoretically they have to log that and I should be getting a few cents for every prisoner, right? Okay. Bye, bye . . .’ ‘What was that about?’ I asked Christopher. ‘Whether I’m due some money for the performance royalties,’ he explained. ‘Why not? It’s an American thing to do. If I have the knack of writing songs that can drive people crazy sooner and more effectively than others, why shouldn’t I profit from that?’ This is why, later that day, Christopher asked Danny Epstein – who has been the music supervisor of Sesame Street since the very first programme was broadcast in July 1969 – to come to his house. It would be Danny’s responsibility to collect the royalties from the military if they proved negligent in filing a music-cue sheet.

Declan had been told a long time ago that he had to know what he wanted, or he'd never get it. Not by his father, because his father would never have delivered such pragmatic advice in such a pragmatic way. No, even if Niall Lynch believed in the sentiment, he would have wrapped it up in a long story filled with metaphor and magic and nonsense riddles. Only years after the storytelling would Declan be sitting somewhere and realize that all along Niall had been trying to teach him to balance his checkbook, or whatever the tale had really been about. Niall could never just say the thing. No, this piece of advice--You have to know what you want, or you'll never get it--was given to Declan by a senator from Nevada he'd met during a DC field trip back in eighth grade. The other children had been bored by the pale stone restraint of the city and the sameness of the law and government offices they toured. Declan, however, had been fascinated. He'd asked the senator what advice he had for those looking to get into politics. "Come from money," the senator had said first, and then when all the eighth graders and their teachers had stared without laughing, he added, "You have to know what you want, or you'll never get it. Make goals." Declan made goals. The goal was DC. The goal was politics. The goal was structure, and more structure, and yet more structure. He took AP classes on political science and policy. When he traveled with his father to black markets, he wrote papers. When he took calls from gangsters and shady antique auction houses, he arranged drop-offs near DC and wrangled meetings with HR people. Aglionby Academy made calls and pulled strings; he got names, numbers, internships. All was going according to plan. His father's will conveniently left him a townhouse adjacent to DC. Declan pressed on. He kept his brothers alive; he graduated; he moved to DC. He made the goal, he went towards the goal. When he took his first lunch meeting with his new boss, he found himself filled with the same anticipation he'd had as an eighth grader. This was the place, he thought, where things happened. Just across the road was the Mexican embassy. Behind him was the IMF. GW Law School was a block away. The White House, the USPS, the Red Cross, all within a stone's throw. This was before he understood there was no making it for him. He came from money, yeah, but the wrong kind of money. Niall Lynch's clout was not relevant in this daylight world; he only had status in the night. And one could not rise above that while remaining invisible to protect one's dangerous brother. On that first day of work, Declan walked into the Renwick Gallery and stood inside an installation that had taken over the second floor around the grand staircase. Tens of thousands of black threads had been installed at points all along the ceiling, tangling around the Villareal LED sculpture that normally lit the room, snarling the railing over the stairs, blocking out the light from the tall arches that bordered the walls, turning the walkways into dark, confusing rabbit tunnels. Museumgoers had to pick their way through with caution lest they be snared and bring the entire world down with them. He had, bizarrely, felt tears burning the corners of his eyes. Before that, he hadn't understood that his goals and what he wanted might not be the same thing. This was where he'd found art.

joke around—nothing serious—as I work to get my leg back to where it was. Two weeks later, I’m in an ankle-to-hip leg brace and hobbling around on crutches. The brace can’t come off for another six weeks, so my parents lend me their townhouse in New York City and Lucien hires me an assistant to help me out around the house. Some guy named Trevor. He’s okay, but I don’t give him much to do. I want to regain my independence as fast as I can and get back out there for Planet X. Yuri, my editor, is griping that he needs me back and I’m more than happy to oblige. But I still need to recuperate, and I’m bored as hell cooped up in the townhouse. Some buddies of mine from PX stop by and we head out to a brunch place on Amsterdam Street my assistant sometimes orders from. Deacon, Logan, Polly, Jonesy and I take a table in Annabelle’s Bistro, and settle in for a good two hours, running our waitress ragged. She’s a cute little brunette doing her best to stay cheerful for us while we give her a hard time with endless coffee refills, loud laughter, swearing, and general obnoxiousness. Her nametag says Charlotte, and Deacon calls her “Sweet Charlotte” and ogles and teases her, sometimes inappropriately. She has pretty eyes, I muse, but otherwise pay her no mind. I have my leg up on a chair in the corner, leaning back, as if I haven’t a care in the world. And I don’t. I’m going to make a full recovery and pick up my life right where I left off. Finally, a manager with a severe hairdo and too much makeup, politely, yet pointedly, inquires if there’s anything else we need, and we take the hint. We gather our shit and Deacon picks up the tab. We file out, through the maze of tables, and I’m last, hobbling slowly on crutches. I’m halfway out when I realize I left my Yankees baseball cap on the table. I return to get it and find the waitress staring at the check with tears in her eyes. She snaps the black leather book shut when she sees me and hurriedly turns away. “Forget something?” she asks with false cheer and a shaky smile. “My hat,” I say. She’s short and I’m tall. I tower over her. “Did Deacon leave a shitty tip? He does that.” “Oh no, no, I mean…it’s fine,” she says, turning away to wipe her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I just…um, kind of a rough month. You know how it is.” She glances me up and down in my expensive jeans and designer shirt. “Or maybe you don’t.” The waitress realizes what she said, and another round of apologies bursts out of her as she begins stacking our dirty dishes. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Really. I have this bad habit…blurting. I don’t know why I said that. Anyway, um…” I laugh, and fish into my back pocket for my wallet. “Don’t worry about it. And take this. For your trouble.” I offer her forty dollars and her eyes widen. Up close, her eyes are even prettier—large and luminous, but sad too. A blush turns her skin scarlet “Oh, no, I couldn’t. No, please. It’s fine, really.” She bustles even faster now, not looking at me. I shrug and drop the twenties on the table. “I hope your month improves.” She stops and stares at the money, at war with herself. “Okay. Thank you,” she says finally, her voice cracking. She takes the money and stuffs it into her apron. I feel sorta bad, poor girl. “Have a nice day, Charlotte,” I say, and start to hobble away. She calls after me, “I hope your leg gets better soon.” That was big of her, considering what ginormous bastards we’d been to her all morning. Or maybe she’s just doing her job. I wave a hand to her without looking back, and leave Annabelle’s. Time heals me. I go back to work. To Planet X. To the world and all its thrills and beauty. I don’t go back to my parents’ townhouse; hell I’m hardly in NYC anymore. I don’t go back to Annabelle’s and I never see—or think about—that cute waitress with the sad eyes ever again. “Fucking hell,” I whisper as the machine reads the last line of

It was one of those early morning athletes, training for the Boston Marathon, who discovered the lifeless body of Tammy McAlpin and called 911. Tennyson could see Lorraine’s townhouse from where he was standing. It was to his right about seventy-five yards down river.

One of Matsudaira Sagami no kami’s retainers went to Kyoto on a matter of debt collection and took up lodgings by renting living quarters in a townhouse. One day while standing out front watching the people go by, he heard a passerby say, “They say that Lord Matsudaira’s men are involved in a fight right now.” The retainer thought, “How worrisome that some of my companions are involved in a fight. There are some men to relieve those at Edo staying here. Perhaps these are the men involved.” He asked the passerby of the location, but when he arrived out of breath, his companions had already been cut down and their adversaries were at the point of delivering the coup de grace. He quickly let out a yell, cut the two men down, and returned to his lodgings. This matter was made known to an official of the shogunate, and the man was called up before him and questioned. “You gave assistance in your companions’ fight and thus disregarded the government’s ordinance. This is true beyond a doubt, isn’t it?” The man replied, “I am from the country, and it is difficult for me to understand everything that Your Honor is saying. Would you please repeat that?” The official got angry and said, “Is there something wrong with your ears? Didn’t you abet a fight, commit bloodshed, disregard the government’s ordinance, and break the law?” The man then replied, “I have at length understood what you are saying. Although you say that I have broken the law and disregarded the government’s ordinance, I have by no means done so. The reason for this is that all living things value their lives, and this goes without saying for human beings. I, especially, value my life. However, I thought that to hear a rumor that one’s friends are involved in a fight and to pretend not to hear this is not to preserve the Way of the Samurai, so I ran to the place of action. To shamelessly return home after seeing my friends struck down would surely have lengthened my life, but this too would be disregarding the Way. In preserving the Way, one will throw away his own precious life. Thus, in order to preserve the Way of the Samurai and not to disregard the Samurai Ordinances, I quickly threw away my life at that place. I beg that you execute me immediately.” The official was very impressed and later dismissed the matter, communicating to Lord Matsudaira, “You have a very able samurai in your service. Please treasure him.

It’s not hard, standing in the townhouse, to picture yourself growing older, losing people you love, feeling betrayed by solitude.

He's a gazillionaire. I barely make expenses every month. He owns mansions all over the world; I co-rent a townhouse in Alexandria with my best friend. Women fall all over themselves to go out with him. I haven't had a date since forever.

The townhouse was in a community called Waterview, a pretty green place with a common that had a gazebo and a fountain. The homes were red-brick colonial and beautiful. The townhouse Paxton had loved from the moment Kirsty showed it to her last year was in a cup-de-sac. Wisteria vines grew around the door, and Paxton remembered thinking how wonderful it would be to walk in and out in the springtime, when the wisteria would be in full bloom. It would be like walking through a wedding arch every day.

Me, I can barely make the rent on the townhouse I share with two other dudes. We’re still on the hunt for a fourth roommate, though, so my share will go down once we fill that empty room.

Where streetlights failed, there were lanternmen. The lanternmen—numbered, so the police could keep track of them—waited around the doors of townhouses in Paris whenever an entertainment was going on inside, and, for a few coins, one of them would accompany a reveler home, lighting his way even up the stairs and into his room.

Caterina's townhouse sat a couple of blocks from a well-stocked grocery store. At about ten each morning, I bundled up, walked down, and purchased whatever ingredients amused me. Back in Caterina's kitchen, I baked chocolate babkas with quinoa flour, tartlets with cream and lychee fruit, roasted vegetables with poached eggs on top.

Land plot An Giang Through Homeseek Perspective At the end of 2021 Land of An Giang . From the perspective of real estate supply in the region, Homeseek can see that the COVID-19 pandemic is a risk but also an opportunity for the real estate market. Many real estate enterprises in An Giang have changed their strategy of developing and distributing diverse products such as: Townhouse projects, Land plots, etc. Homeseek passe en revue quelques projets de terrain en suspens à An Giang : PROJET DE LA RIVIÈRE OUEST HAU RIVER PHASE 2 Le point culminant du projet West Song Hau An Giang est l'emplacement privilégié au bord de la rivière qui offrira aux résidents un espace de vie très confortable et frais, de l'air frais et des installations modernes. . Diamond City An Giang reçoit beaucoup d'attention de la part des investisseurs et des clients en raison de son énorme potentiel d'investissement rentable. ПРОЕКТ T&T LONG Xuyen URBAN AREA Проект T&T Long Xuyen разработан в направлении современного и стильного прибрежного городского района. Проект вдохновлен известными европейскими площадями, такими как: Прага (Чешская Республика) или Лиссабон (Португалия), сочетая садовую культуру, характеристики реки через образы западных плавучих рынков, с идеей стать «роскошной европейской улицей». у реки Хау-Зианг », изюминкой отеля является центральная площадь с символом лотоса и 25-этажное здание гостиницы, построенное на языке зеленой архитектуры и отвечающее 5-му стандарту. PROYEKT T&T LONG Xuyen URBAN AREA Proyekt T&T Long Xuyen razrabotan v napravlenii sovremennogo i stil'nogo pribrezhnogo gorodskogo rayona. Proyekt vdokhnovlen izvestnymi yevropeyskimi ploshchadyami, takimi kak: Praga (Cheshskaya Respublika) ili Lissabon (Portugaliya), sochetaya sadovuyu kul'turu, kharakteristiki reki cherez obrazy zapadnykh plavuchikh rynkov, s ideyey stat' «roskoshnoy yevropeyskoy ulitsey». u reki Khau-Ziang », izyuminkoy otelya yavlyayetsya tsentral'naya ploshchad' s simvolom lotosa i 25-etazhnoye zdaniye gostinitsy, postroyennoye na yazyke zelenoy arkhitektury i otvechayushcheye 5-mu standartu. For more information homeseekvn . wordpress . com/2021/10/13/dat-nen-an-giang-qua-goc-nhin-homeseek-vao-cuoi-2021/

So I suppose it was inevitable that we would end up at Lucy’s diggings on Sugar Hill, where the well-heeled denizens of Harlem roosted. He rented a basement flat of what the Americans call a townhouse, the upper floors of which were occupied by a family of undertakers. Next door, Lucy has informed me, lives a celebrated physician who specialises in maternity care. Thus, as I believe I have mentioned before, from birth to death, a man may never need to set foot outside Harlem. “When a man is tired of Harlem,” quoth Lucy, “he is tired of life.

Of course, Amsterdam’s flourishing mercantile classes did not invest only in art. Trade also financed the construction of the concentric canals encircling the city. Each of these was given a name indicative of the class of resident it hoped to attract: the Gentleman’s Canal (Herengracht), the Prince’s Canal (Prinsengracht), the Emperor’s Canal (Keizersgracht). A northern Venice was born, albeit with colder weather and worse food. Along the canals, handsome townhouses were built in classical or neo-Renaissance style, complete with ornamented façades, large windows and high-ceilinged rooms for entertaining guests. The houses were taxed according to their width at the front, so a unique shape of building evolved: narrow fronted but very tall and surprisingly deep, often with a sizable garden hidden Tardis-like at the back. Many included what the Dutch called doorzonwoningen, individual rooms running the whole length of the house, so that sunlight could shine all the way through from the windows at either end. Steep staircases saved valuable space inside, with elaborate systems of ropes and pulleys enabling front doors to be opened from upstairs by tugging on a loose end. Building smaller rooms on the upper floors than on the lower ones helped enhance the sense of perspective when one looked up from the street, exaggerating the height of the buildings. Gabled rooves were topped with flagpole holders pointing out like fingers, together with cranes and pulleys for lifting in furniture that would not fit through the narrow interior staircases.

Ihave no idea what was said during the car ride to Garrett’s townhouse. I’m sure we talked. I’m sure I saw the scenery whizzing past the window. I’m sure I even breathed oxygen in and out of my lungs like a normal person. I just don’t remember any of those things.

Neither man spoke, both lost in thought. Lucien was visited by the awful memory of the day when Cedric’s parents died. Lucien knew that Cedric had been watching over Audrey at the Sheridan townhouse on Curzon Street when a footman had come running. Cedric once told him that everything seemed to slow from that moment on. The footman was flushed and sputtered about a carriage accident and finally blurted out, “Dead, sir. Both Lord and Lady Sheridan are dead. Your sister suffered a broken arm, but is alive. Lord Rochester was nearby and helped in rescuing your sister.” Lucien would never forget that moment when he’d brought Horatia home after the accident. Cedric had taken two steps towards the door and his legs gave out, sinking to his knees.

Be thankful all she did was raise her voice," Mr. Blackpool told Sarah conspiratorially. "During the ride to London, I had to talk her out of scaling up the townhouse walls, should the door go unanswered." She had to hide her smile at the image of flamboyant Mrs. Blackpool climbing row houses like a circus monkey. "We are fortunate indeed that such measures did not prove necessary.

listening to the stir of the trees, the chatter of birds as they flew in and out, the bubble of the fountain. This was an enchanted spot, justification in and of itself for the price of the townhouse. Casey might not know viburnum from vinca, but she knew that city gardens didn’t get better than this.

Was it her imagination, or did the townhouse loom? All the other mansions on this street looked polite and elegant, neatly confining themselves within rows of trimmed hedges. This house, on the other hand, sprawled. She spied a gargoyle lurking above one cornice, glowering at her. Of course the Duke of Marwick would have a gargoyle carved into his house!

2012 Andy’s Email   Iacted foolishly in 1968 while waiting to be summoned to Sheik Fahrib’s Household. The doctor certainly took his time to prepare our arrival atلصقر في دن (The Falcon’s Den), his townhouse in Amsterdam.               I’m sorry I neglected you during our time at the Bahriji. Too preoccupied with Albert, I had underestimated the nature of our relationship. I was under the impression that Albert was sufficiently mature to conduct a triplet relationship. Regrettably, his emotional puerility created a rift between you and me. On the surface, he acted as if he accepted and loved you as he did me, yet when I was alone with him, his insecurities emerged. He discouraged me from spending time with you. I thought he would come round to accepting you, as I had Oscar. Unfortunately, my sanguine presumptions did not turn out as planned.               As much as I adored Albert, I missed our soul-level connection. This was something I did not share with him. I loved him very much, but it wasn’t the unspoken, nearly telepathic understanding you and I had for each other. No spoken or written words are enough for the way we felt for each other. You probably think that I’m a sentimental fool, reminiscing about the wonderful moments we shared during our E.R.O.S. years.☺

I was just about to call out to him when a woman followed him out of the townhouse. She was carrying a little boy. As I stood there watching, my father took the little boy from her and held him. He wrapped his other arm around the woman.

As they wended their way from room to room, Anna noted that the earl, away from his townhouse at least, was a toucher. She’d seen the same tendency when he was with his brother. He laid a hand on Val’s sleeve, straightened Val’s collar, patted his back, and otherwise treated his brother with affection. It was the same with Nanny Fran, whom he kissed on the cheek, hugged, and allowed to treat him with similar familiarity. With Anna, he took her hand, offered his arm, put his hand on the small of her back, brushed aside her hair, and otherwise kept up a steady campaign of casual touches. Casual to him, Anna thought, knowing she was being sillier than any woman of five and twenty had a right to be. To her, these little gestures were sweet and attractive, that is, they fascinated her and made her want to stand too close to him. Outside, he assisted her over stiles and fences, picked her a daisy and positioned it behind her ear, stole a little kiss under the rose arbor, and tucked her against his side while they explored the garden walks.

So is this Val’s widow?” A jovial male voice sang out from the back of the box, and because she was watching her escort’s every move, Ellen saw Gayle Windham almost roll his eyes. “Percy!” A soft, female voice chided. “Really. Lady Roxbury is Valentine’s friend and was his neighbor in Oxfordshire. My lady, Esther, the Duchess of Moreland, pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Valentine’s mother, and this scandalous old reprobate is His Grace, Percival, the Duke of Moreland.” Ellen would have fallen on her backside had Westhaven not had her hand tucked firmly on his arm. She curtsied, murmuring something polite, her mind whirling at the august personages before her and the casual manner in which they’d introduced themselves. Maybe Val hadn’t known his parents were using their box tonight, she reasoned. This whole trip to Town had been so odd, with Westhaven explaining only that Val wanted her to attend the opening night of the symphony’s fall season. She’d been whisked to Town, spent the night in one of the most elegant townhouses she’d ever seen, presented with a peculiarly well-fitting bronze silk evening gown and all the trimmings, and now here she was. “They’re growin’ ’em almost as pretty as my duchess out in Oxfordshire, I see,” the duke said, beaming at Ellen. Did dukes beam? Something in the mischief of his smile tickled her memory. “You and Val have the same smile,” she informed the duke. “And Your Grace”—she turned to the duchess, a stately, slender lady whose hair was antique gold—“Val has your eyes.” The duchess leaned close to whisper, “But I think Valentine has your heart, hmm?” She straightened and took her husband’s arm. “Shall we be seated, Percy? One doesn’t want to disappoint the crowds.

He hoped her dreams were peaceful, for in a few moments she would awaken to the catastrophe that had befallen her. Could he persuade her to return home with him? Rumor had it that everything west of the river was untouched by the fire, which meant his townhouse had survived. He wanted to extend the protection of his home to Mollie. Never had he seen a woman as brave as she had been for the last thirty-six hours, and it confirmed what he had believed about her all along. She was worth fighting for, and he wanted her to be a part of his life.

A woman I have never seen before Steps from the darkness of her town-house door At just that crux of time when she is made So beautiful that she or time must fade. What use to claim that as she tugs her gloves A phantom heraldry of all the loves Blares from the lintel? That the staggered sun Forgets, in his confusion, how to run? Still, nothing changes as her perfect feet Click down the walk that issues in the street, Leaving the stations of her body there Like whips that map the countries of the air.

But it was the aforementioned stubborn streak that had him executing his plan by striding down the halls of Lord Welsing’s London townhouse, peering into rooms and stopping to question any passing staff, while guests danced and laughed in the ballroom. The young lady crucial to his matrimonial campaign had gone missing. Again. Miss

The cab took them past other libraries and townhouses, then the redbrick walls of Keble College with their zigzag patterns, which looked ridiculous and spoke, Grace suspected, of the general unavailability of proper Cotswolds sandstone.

I will invite myself to luncheon, and afterward, we can play whist or another game, if you’re wanting company.” Her lips tightened. “No one could ever accuse you of subtlety, Lord Ashton.” “I don’t know the meaning of the word.” She laughed at that, and he directed the team in the direction of her family’s townhouse. “You seem overly confident that I would want you to stay.” “Why wouldn’t you be wanting me to stay? It is preferable to staring at the wall, I hope.” “I would welcome your company,” she said. “But again, I worry that others will believe you are courting me.” “Don’t be so concerned about what others think.” He drew the horses to a stop when they reached her townhouse. “Is there any harm in spending an afternoon playing cards with me? Your sister can join us, along with your mother.” Her spirits lifted for a moment. “My mother would like that, I think. Grandmother has been keeping her behind closed doors as much as possible. I think she is becoming more melancholy each day.” Before the footman could come to help her disembark, Rose turned back to him. “Thank you for taking me for a drive.” With a soft smile, she added, “And you may stay for luncheon, before you suffer the indignity of losing to me in cards.” He only shook his head. “Nay, a chara. We’re to be partners in the game. It is your mother and sister who must prepare to lose.

time to see the Camry turn right at the red light, passing the old, darkened gas station again. He pulled up to the lights and watched the blue car slowly continue on. When the light turned green, he crossed the intersection and headed for his townhouse. He kept his eyes on his rear view mirror, but no one followed him. They’re feds. It’s me they’re watching. Time for Plan B... * * * * *   Chapter 56 Avram was organized. All the important records were at his townhouse in one place: the den. He sat in his desk chair and fed them into the cross-cut shredder, a few at a time. He’d planned carefully for this, for years. The Feds would try to charge him, in absentia, with money laundering. Well, he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. Fortunately, Silvio Tambini had more places to wash his money

The schoolroom . . . Olivia had always adored its confines and endless horizons. The melodious purr of the teacher's voice rising up and down her lessons like a musical score. And the sight of book spines--black, blue, green--lined up side by side like London townhouses. Each leather rectangle a gift waiting to be opened and explored and savored.

Vera had lived in a lot of places after leaving the Crowder House. She’d been in shitty apartments and nice apartments and even a townhouse for a year, before that situation went bad the way things always did. But she hadn’t lived in any of those places long enough to stop bumping into things. She hadn’t lived in any of them long enough to feel tenderly toward them.

(...) The people I chatted with in Kito's didn't seem to doubt that I'd been to the top of the Thumb; they just didn't mcuh care. (...) Less than a month after sitting on the summit of the Thumb, I was back in Boulder, nailing up siding on the Spruce Street Townhouses, the same condosI'd been framing when I left for Alaska. (...) It is easy, when you are young, to believe that what you desire is no less than what you deserve, to assume that if you want something badly enough, it is your God-given right to have it. When I decided to go to Alaska that April, like Chris McCandless, I was a raw youth who mistook passion for insight and acted according to an obscure, gap-ridden logic. I thought climbing the Devils Thumb would fix all that was wrong with my life. In the end, of course, it changed almost nothing. But I came to appreciate that mountains make poor receptacles for dreams. And I lived to tell my tale.

Amy will sit at the bar and drink anywhere from four to six martinis, then she’ll grab her purse and drive the short distance home, some nights swerving back and forth across the yellow line the entire way. She lives in a townhouse that is worth more than it should be because of its location. She’ll wake up the next morning and start the whole process again.

The townhouse itself was a five-story patchwork of weathered granite slabs—literal tombstones, some with the names and dates of the deceased still visible. Crouching gargoyles leered down at us from either side of the gabled roof. Black cast-iron filigree framed the windows, ran across the railing of the second-floor balcony, and spilled down either side of the main entrance like a mourning shawl made

I bet this isn’t your idea of the perfect Saturday night.” “Be honest. Where are you supposed to be right now?” I’d received invitations to two charity galas, a private museum exhibit, and a dinner party at the Singhs’ townhouse for that night. I’d declined all of them. “Nowhere,” I said. “I’m exactly where I want to be.

I bet this isn’t your idea of the perfect Saturday night. Be honest. Where are you supposed to be right now?” I’d received invitations to two charity galas, a private museum exhibit, and a dinner party at the Singhs’ townhouse for that night. I’d declined all of them. “Nowhere,” I said. “I’m exactly where I want to be.

His mind was playing tricks on him. “I believed there was a man trapped on the second floor of the townhouse,” he says. “It was completely irrational to what I knew to be true, but I was projecting that old image onto this new scene.” His brain had taken him back in time as his body viscerally experienced that initial tragic fire. He was confused and petrified.

I love this townhouse. I guess I’d forgotten what it looked like. It’s very old New York. Dark, elegant. Kinda like you,” she teased. “Elegant, eh? That’s what you see?” “Oh, yeah.” She fanned herself. “I told you, GQ model. It’s the suits. And the cheekbones. You should call Calvin Klein if this whole lawyering thing falls through. I’d pay for photos of you in your underwear.

It was there, in the little blue townhouse on Santa Clara Drive,

He was about the color, shape, and size of an ostrich-feather duster and suited Garrett much better than either of them suited the décor of her townhouse.

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It was the fire of justice that was burning through Townhouse now. The fire of justice that appeases the injured spirit and sets the record straight. The third blow was an uppercut that put me flat on the pavement. It was a thing of beauty, I tell you. Townhouse took two steps back, heaving a little from the exertion, the sweat running down his forehead. Then he took another step back like he needed to, like he was worried that if he were any closer, he would hit me again and again, and might not be able to stop. I gave him the friendly wave of one crying uncle. Then being careful to take my time so the blood wouldn’t rush from my head, I got back on my feet. —That’s the stuff, I said with a smile, after spitting some blood on the sidewalk. —Now we’re square, said Townhouse. —Now we’re square, I agreed, and I stuck out my hand. Townhouse stared at it for a moment. Then he took it in a firm grip and looked me eye to eye—like we were the presidents of two nations who had just signed an armistice after generations of discord. At that moment, we were both towering over the boys, and they knew it. You could tell from the expressions of respect on the faces of Otis and the teens, and the expression of dejection on the face of Maurice. I felt bad for him. Not man enough to be a man, or child enough to be a child, not black enough to be black, or white enough to be white, Maurice just couldn’t seem to find his place in the world. It made me want to tussle his hair and assure him that one day everything was going to be all right. But it was time to move along. Letting go of Townhouse’s hand, I gave him a tip of the hat. —See you round, pardner, I said. —Sure, said Townhouse. I’d felt pretty good when I settled the scores with the cowboy and Ackerly, knowing that I was playing some small role in balancing the scales of justice. But those feelings were nothing compared to the satisfaction I felt after letting Townhouse settle his score with me. Sister Agnes had always said that good deeds can be habit forming. And I guess she was right, because having given Sally’s jam to the kids at St. Nick’s, as I was about to leave Townhouse’s stoop I found myself turning back. —Hey, Maurice, I called. He looked up with the same expression of dejection, but with a touch of uncertainty too. —See that baby-blue Studebaker over there? —Yeah? —She’s all yours. Then I tossed him the keys. I would have loved to see the look on his face when he caught them. But I had already turned away and was striding down the middle of 126th Street with the sun at my back, thinking: Harrison Hewett, here I come.

Mr. Farnsworth is not here, but I assume you've come to tell him that you do not wish to purchase the townhouse?" "Not at all." He took the seat next to her and turned in her direction. "I find the house is perfect for my needs." Her jaw tightened. "It is perfect for my needs." A Rose for Laura, release date 9/30/2021

I remember you,” she said at last. “The dinner at Darcy’s townhouse last May. You are the young woman who kept putting herself forward and could not grasp the difference between wealth and pedigree.

And then he flew. Up and up, he went, to the height of the townhouses, enjoying the freedom just like any other creature, human, god, or animal.

Beyond economizing on land, cities also improve energy efficiency: living in a smaller townhouse or an apartment—a decision often made for urban residents by higher housing costs—can dramatically reduce electricity consumption. By one estimate, a household in a detached single-family house consumes three times as much energy as a household in an apartment.7 This difference mostly comes down to the cost of heating and cooling, which alone accounts for half of a household’s residential energy consumption

Poe did live on this block, farther down the street at 85 Amity Street (as West Third was known in Poe’s day). In the fall of 1845, he moved into a Greek Revival townhouse-turned-boardinghouse, where he shared rooms with his wife, Virginia, and his mother-in-law, Maria Clemm.

Wind and night and stars wheeled by as he winnowed us through the world, and the calluses of his hand scratched against my own fading ones before- Before sunlight, not starlight, greeted me. Squinting at the brightness, I found myself standing in what was unmistakably a foyer of someone's house. The ornate red carpet cushioned the one step I staggered away from him as I surveyed the warm, wood-panelled walls, the artwork, the straight, wide oak staircase ahead. Flanking us were two rooms: on my left, a sitting room with a black marble fireplace, lots of comfortable, elegant, but worn furniture, and bookshelves built into every wall. On my right; a dining room with a long, cherrywood table big enough for ten people- small, compared to the dining room at the manor. Down the slender hallway ahead were a few more doors, ending in one that I assumed would lead to a kitchen. A town house. ... This house... this house was a home that had been lived in and enjoyed and cherished.

Alexander Ekdahl, is eleven years old, and lives in the small Swedish city of Uppsala. He lives in a large townhouse, divided into four splendid apartments, with his sister, Fanny, his parents, his two uncles and aunts, his cousin, his grandmother, and a number of servants.

We always want what we can’t have.

Goodness and happiness were gone for ever and nothing could be retrieved. This was going to end; and end terribly. The last three years had been spent trying to dodge their fate, but it was rushing up to meet them.

Life was all about timing.

I’ve been heartbroken before. I really don’t know if I have the energy for it again.

Not long after his return to England, on 22 November 1774, at the age of only forty-nine, Robert Clive committed suicide in his townhouse in Berkeley Square.

Can I have your sperm?” “Umm, no,” says my very handsome friend. He’s standing in the doorway of his stunning Upper East Side townhouse, wearing a completely bewildered expression. Who can blame him? It’s 10 p.m. and I’m in my pajamas, my bunned-up hair hanging askew off my head. “Before you say no, hear me out––” “No,” he repeats as if I haven’t just given him instructions. He eyeballs my pjs with the pigs with wings pattern on them. A joke gift Delia bought me when she told me she sleeps naked and I said I would do that when pigs fly. They’re very comfy. “Are you in your pajamas?” “Yes.” I push past him to get inside. “I’m prepared to assume all cost,” I rush to say, my voice high and marked with desperation. “You know my financial situation. You know I don’t need help in that regard. And you can participate as little or as much as you want in raising our child––” “Slow down, Stella––” “Jeff said no...” I walk directly into his living room and come to an abrupt stop. Stacks of cardboard boxes are everywhere. “Are you moving?” “Yes.” Ethan brushes a hand over his gorgeous face. “Where’s this coming from?” “I want a baby and the gays said I was too structured. And we’re friends, right? We respect each other, right?” “Wait? What gays?” “The architect, and the professor of economics at Columbia. Keep up, will you.” Ethan chuckles and I glare back. This wasn’t supposed to be this hard. And it’s poking at all my sore spots. “I really liked the professor. He’s the one that said I was too structured. The architect said he found a more geographically suitable candidate, but I’m pretty sure he was lying because I would’ve moved uptown if that was the only issue.” “Okay––” he says, taking a deep breath, his hands on his hips. “You want a baby.” “Yes.” “So go to a sperm bank.” “Too anonymous.” “I’m not giving you my sperm, Stella. I’m moving to Los Angeles in less than two weeks and I’m getting married. I don’t think she’d be too keen on me handing over my sperm.” Stunned, I rock back on my heels. “What?! To who?” “To a woman I’m in love with.” He smiles then, the sweetest of smiles, and I know he’s serious. “Camilla’s friend.” At my blank response he continues, “The actress––we haven’t talked in months.” “I called.” “To tell me my investments are up thirteen percent.” “You’re up fourteen for the year now. And you said you were too busy for a drink.” “You canceled the last time.” Totally dejected, I slump down on the armrest of his couch. “You were the last name on my list.” I can’t keep the disappointment out of my voice. I’m so bummed I may start to cry and I am not a crier. Ethan chuckles softly. “Wow, thanks.” “You know what I mean.” “Why not a sperm bank?” “I want my kid to know his or her father. I don’t want to tell them I bought their father.

When daylight lasts until 10pm because of the time change, and the traffic noise has died down, I have the illusion that all I’d need to do is return to those faraway neighborhoods to find the people I’ve lost, who had never left [...] Colette is leaning against the door of a private townhouse, hands in the pockets of her raincoat. Every time I look at that picture, it hurts. It’s like in the morning when you try to recall your dream from the night before, but all that’s left are scraps that dissolve before you can put them together. I knew that woman in another life and I’m doing my best to remember. Maybe someday I’ll manage to break through that layer of silence and amnesia.

He had no lost thoughts. Last thoughts are for bourgeois Russian deathbeds, in comfortable townhouses, where false friends and colleagues take tea in the next room and ponder what vacancies and opportunities your death might afford them.

I’m beginnin’ to regret taking you and not yer brother,” he said in exasperation. “Ye’re a pain in the arse.” She stiffened. “Well, I didn’t ask to be here.” “Aye, and the sooner ye’re gone the better.” “I could not agree more. But in the meantime, you could at least ensure that I don’t starve to death.” “Nobody’s starvin’ ye. Ye’re just damned picky.” “And you are callous and rude.” “No argument there.” He glared at her. “Will ye eat an egg or two?” She glared back. “Boiled?” “God almighty—” “Because I’m certainly not expecting them to be coddled and served in a china egg-cup.” “Well, then, ’tis glad I am to hear it, because high expectations will only lead to disappointment and the divil only knows we’ve failed yer high and mighty ladyship in everything else.” “Not everything,” she said beneath her breath. “Oh?” “Your objectionable language aside, you have been a gentleman,” she allowed with pointed reluctance. He made a sound of hopeless frustration and gazed out at the horizon, thinking he’d heave the ship to in the morning so Cranton could catch her a fish for breakfast. No worms in that. Nothing to complain about and the damn thing would be fresher than anything she’d find on her plate back in that fancy townhouse she must inhabit in London. “I’ve been a gentleman, but saints alive, woman, ye push the limits of my patience, ye do.” “Well, you push the limits of mine. You have abducted me. Held me against my will. You have ruined me, ruined my life, and ruined any chances I might’ve had to marry a man of my own choosing.” “Oh, the drama,” he said.

I’m getting married, I’m getting married, I’m getting married,” I sing like a five-year-old who’s been given her favorite ice cream flavor. “Oh, my God. Stop it, Ci, you’re killing me.” Harley is in tears laughing at my childish reaction and Sofia is folded in half trying her best to control her own laughing fits. “Sorry, but I can’t wait. It’s weird, because we bought a new townhouse in New York and we have this home, so technically we already live together and we all know I’ve been having some pretty incredible sex,” I say, batting my lashes while I lick my lips. Both my sister and my best friend roar with laughter. “Okay, seriously. The big difference is that after our wedding, he’ll be wholeheartedly mine. As we all know, I really wasn’t looking, but I’m so grateful I found the one. I didn’t think there was a man out there able to curb my appetite for commitment-free flings, but the second Nikolaj showed up at my hotel door in Barcelona, he claimed my heart.

Dowry Square in the Hotwells area of Bristol had been built in the 1800s for wealthy merchants wishing to live away from the stink of the city’s docks. But unlike neighbouring Clifton, which had mostly managed to maintain its select image for two centuries, Hotwells had floundered. A huge network of busy roads, including a massive flyover, had turned it into an undesirable area several decades ago. But since the mid-1980s, when smart new complexes of flats and townhouses had been built along the river, it had been on the up-and-up

fit for them. Steve Jobs said it best: “People don’t know what they want until you show it to them.” Linus wanted an apartment in Murray Hill, but I sold him a townhouse in Park Slope. This didn’t happen because I just told him where it was, when it was built, and what the square footage was; based on what I knew about Linus I believed it was the best choice for him—and that he would love it. Closing a deal is about tapping into emotions. The sooner you can learn to take off the “salesman’s hat” and get in tune with your client’s emotions and desires, the better you’ll become at working the deal. If you’re not sure how to do that, remember what makes an exceptional salesperson: a salesperson who works for The Deal.

In one life she went to Oxford and became a lecturer in Philosophy at St Catherine’s College and lived by herself in a fine Georgian townhouse in a genteel row, amid an environment of respectable calm.

Suppose one had gained the trust of many gentlefolk in London. One could then act as an intermediary, settling their transactions in the city with a word and a handshake, without the need for bags of silver to be lugged around and heaved into the doorways of posh town-houses. Suppose one also had many contacts in the countryside — a network, as it were, of trusted associates on all of the estates and in all of the market-towns. Then one could almost dispense with the need for hauling stamped disks of silver to and from London on the highways — but only by replacing it with a torrential, two-way flow of information.

Les salons—prestigious social gatherings of prominent, intellectually minded people—were rooted in Italy’s salones, smartly appointed rooms within Roman palazzi with suitably dazzling façades. Seventeenth and eighteenth-century France, however, deserves credit for building the cultural cachet of this pleasurable way to pass the day. In salons equally luxueux, as the French would say, Parisian men and women from the literary establishment, along with philosophers and luminaries from the worlds of art, music and politics, would frequently meet to discuss the latest news, exchange ideas and gossip, all at the invitation of refined, wealthy women known as salonnières. In their key role, hosts chose an eclectic mix of guests with care, and then ideally served as moderators, selecting topics that would generate conversation if not spirited debates. To date, though, even historians cannot agree as to what was, and what was not, considered appropriate to talk about. Yet, they do concur that women were the cornerstones of les salons, funneling fresh social and political ideas into a nation where men dominated public life, held bias against women and until 1944 denied women the right to vote. Among the distinguished seventeenth-century salonnières—with set parameters that she expected guests to follow—was French society hostess Catherine de Vivonne, the marquise de Rambouillet (1588–1665), known as Madame de Rambouillet. A century later, Marie Thérèse Rodet Geoffrin (1699–1777) would host twice weekly many of the most influential philosophes (avant-garde intellectuals) and encyclopédistes (writers) in her elegant Parisian townhouse on the now luxury-laden, boutique-lined rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. As a leading figure of the French Enlightenment—the movement that promoted liberty and equality, strongly influencing our own notions about human rights and the role of government—her growing importance earned her international recognition.

Your tongue. Her throat.” Holy. Christ. The photo shoved in my face shows Chandler on top of me in front of her townhouse in the rain and we’re kissing, rain illuminated by the streetlights, glistening like glitter. We look like a romance novel cover. The kind of book Darla would choose.