Wealthy Woman Quotes

It was easy to make the obvious leap that the money was supposed to be my fee for whatever Lillian Holler wanted to expose. Sometimes my clients come with prepayment. I still questioned why she had picked me and how she had found me. But she was a wealthy woman and wealthy women have ways of finding out whatever it is they want to know.

Like any reasonable human, I do not like harming innocent people, but like any reasonable human, I do not consider the wealthy to be innocent people.

The shoes always tell the story,' said the shoe poet. 'Not always,' I countered. 'Yes, always. Your boots, they are expensive, well made. That tells me that you come from a wealthy family. But the style is one made for and older woman. That tell me they probably belong to your mother. A mother sacrificed her boots for her daughter. That tells me you are loved, my dear. And your mother is not here, so that tells me that you are sad, my dear. The shoes tell the story.

The old man spoke of nothing but shoes. He spoke of them with such love and emotion that a woman in our group had crowned him “the shoe poet.” The woman disappeared a day later but the nickname survived. “The shoes always tell the story,” said the shoe poet. “Not always,” I countered. “Yes, always. Your boots, they are expensive, well made. That tells me that you come from a wealthy family. But the style is one made for an older woman. That tells me they probably belonged to your mother. A mother sacrificed her boots for her daughter. That tells me you are loved, my dear. And your mother is not here, so that tells me that you are sad, my dear. The shoes tell the story.” I paused in the center of the frozen road and watched the stubby old cobbler shuffle ahead of me. The shoe poet was right. Mother had sacrificed for me.

When the founders wrote “We the People,” they really meant “We the White, Wealthy Men.” Despite much lofty rhetoric, all men were not created equal, and women didn’t count at all.

Like alcohol and poverty, a heartbreak has the power to make a man do something he wouldn’t normally do and to make a woman do someone she wouldn’t normally do.

I love you too much to lie to you, Lisey. I love you with all that passes for my heart. I suspect that kind of all-out love becomes a burden to a woman in time, but it's the only kind I have to give. I think we're going to be quite a wealthy couple in terms of money, but I'll almost certainly be an emotional pauper all my life. I've got the money coming, but as for the rest I've got just enough for you, and I won't ever dirty or dilute it with lies. Not with the words I say, not with the ones I hold back.

The Challenge is to pry Bertie loose from Dain and his circle of oafish dengenerates,” Jessica said severely. “It would be far more profitable to pry Dain loose for yourself,” said her grandmother. “He is very wealthy, his lineage is excellent, he is young, strong, and healthy, and you feel a powerful attraction.” “He isn’t husband material.” “What I have described is perfect husband material.” said her grandmother. “I don’t want a husband.” “Jessica, no woman does who can regard men objectively. And you have always been magnificently objective.

My body never belonged to me. You must have felt that too. If someone wanted to beat me, they could beat me. If someone wanted to lock me in the closet, they could. Childhood is such a perverse injustice, I don't know how anyone survives it without going crazy. But I have a chance to turn the tables. I have a chance to run the streets and be a wealthy woman. No one is ever, ever, ever going to treat me with disrespect again.

Listen: I don't have anything against autobiographies, so long as the writer has a penis that's twelve inches long when erect. So long as the writer is a woman who was once a whore and is moderately wealthy in her old age.

At the beginning of time, according to the great Western tradition, the Word of God transformed chaos into Being through the act of speech. It is axiomatic, within that tradition, that man and woman alike are made in the image of that God. We also transform chaos into Being, through speech. We transform the manifold possibilities of the future into the actualities of past and present. To tell the truth is to bring the most habitable reality into Being. Truth builds edifices that can stand a thousand years. Truth feeds and clothes the poor, and makes nations wealthy and safe. Truth reduces the terrible complexity of a man to the simplicity of his word, so that he can become a partner rather than an enemy. Truth makes the past truly past, and makes the best use of the future's possibilities. Truth is the ultimate, inexhaustible natural resource. It's the light in the darkness. See the truth. Tell the truth.

When selecting a one-night stand, a heterosexual woman who is materialistic is a trillion times more likely to choose a sexually unattractive poor man who seems rich over a sexually attractive rich man who seems poor.

Reading for me, was like breathing. It was probably akin to masturbation for my brain. Getting off on the fantasy within the pages of a good novel felt necessary to my survival. If I wasn't asleep, knitting, or working, I was reading. This was for several reasons, all of them focused around the infititely superior and enviable lives of fictional heroines to real-life people. Take romans for instance. Fictional women in romance novels never get their period. They never have morning breath. They orgasm seventeen times a day. And they never seem to have jobs with bosses. These clean, well-satisfied, perm-minty-breathed women have fulfilling careers as florists, bakery owners, hair stylists or some other kind of adorable small business where they decorate all day. If they do have a boss, he's a cool guy (or gal) who's invested in the woman's love life. Or, he's a super hot billionaire trying to get in her pants. My boss cares about two things: Am I on time ? Are all my patients alive and well at the end of my shift? And the mend in the romance novels are too good to be true; but I love it, and I love them. Enter stage right the independently wealthy venture capitalist suffering from the ennui of perfection until a plucky interior decorator enters stage left and shakes up his life and his heart with perky catch phrases and a cute nose that wrinkles when she sneezes. I suck at decorating. The walls of my apartment are bare. I am allergic to most store-bought flowers. If I owned a bakery, I'd be broke and weigh seven hundred pounds, because I love cake.

She makes me crazy. She makes me happy. I think she's so beautiful that I want to just sit and look at her for hours. One minute I'm perfectly sane, and the next I'm totally losing it. She couldn’t give a shit less about the fact that I'm rich, and I think the woman is blind because I swear she doesn't even notice that I'm scarred. The way she looks at me sometimes makes me feel like I'm ten feet tall. And she's looking at me. Not the billionaire, not the wealthy executive. Just the man. She can be as stubborn as a damn mule, but I even like that because she's determined. Smart. Kind. And she puts up with my cranky ass, accepts me exactly as I am." Breathless from his tirade, Simon sucked in a trembling, uneven gulp of air. He slumped forward, his anger spent. "So, yeah. If these wild lunatic, possessive feelings for her that I have every fucking minute of every day are love...I'm screwed. I'm can't even imagine having to live my life without her.

The partition window opened. Panic flooded through him and he twisted in his seat to see Kooi’s wife. She had a gun, pointed through the little window and at his head. ‘We can talk about this,’ Leeson said, swallowing. ‘I can make you a very wealthy woman.’ She said, ‘Put your hands over your ears, Peter, and close your eyes.

Reality is based on your perception of the truth. Think about that statement for a bit, it will blow your mind, and blow the lid of what you perceive to be real and what is an illusion. You are here to live YOUR life, YOUR way and on YOUR terms, not for the people you work for, not the people in the media, and not to live in the little box that society may have placed you in. You are a unique individual, with talents, with drive, with passion, with ambition, with love, with laughter, with a soul that could melt the hardest of hearts, and with a mind as creative as Da Vinci. You chose this life for a reason, and it certainly wasn't to live a reality created by others. Is this the time to stand up, and say I can live my own reality, create what I want for my own life, have the things I want in life without guilt, knowing that you deserve anything you want and are prepared to put the time and effort into getting? What if there was a way to bend your reality, a way to use your mind consciously to get what YOU want in life, become wealthy, feel comfortable in your own skin, meet the perfect man or woman, become more spontaneous, feel free, love, be open, be honest, be heartfelt, be grateful, be the one, love life, live, feel it, breathe it.... Welcome to Mind Alchemy Is this the time to Bend Your Reality?

Wealthy old woman + devious imagination - restraint = Aunt Agatha

A woman with a newborn baby is too starry-eyed to see a wealthy man's cannon fodder or a cheap source of slave labor.

They say you're never truly wealthy until you have something money can't buy.

This is the first time for the girl, a time of revelation. Mysteries unravel at this height, patterns emerge. She stands woman--tall, shoulder to shoulder, with the sun and laughs to think that such a splendid world had ever frightened her. All that she sees, farm and forest, pasture and prairie, city and country, and continent, stretches before her like tomorrows filled with promise . . . She was born to this kingdom. In time it will be hers to explore, to make her own. One climb is over, another just beginning. She is rich in days, wealthy in possibilities. And here in this crowning moment, For the very first time . . . She knows.

This kiss was different from the first one under the olive tree. That one had been unplanned, she was pretty sure. This kiss had intention and hunger branded all over it. It was like one of those kisses you read about in fairy tales—but Alana had never imagined that such a kiss could cause bone-trembling shivers as well as bliss. She’d never considered the downside of the awakening kiss, of how the princess felt when the hero tore through the thorns or scaled the tower and speared heat and sex and life-changing energy into the princess’s world.

The most impoverished peasant can be delighted by the opening of the first spring flower, and the most wealthy aristocrat can curse the day he was born because of some petty offense to his sensibilities. She is a very wise woman. To achieve serenity we have to view life not as it is measured by the world around us but as we ourselves measure it. We must accept that the scales are not at all equal.

A final depressing point about inequality and violence. As we’ve seen, a rat being shocked activates a stress response. But a rat being shocked who can then bite the hell out of another rat has less of a stress response. Likewise with baboons—if you are low ranking, a reliable way to reduce glucocorticoid secretion is to displace aggression onto those even lower in the pecking order. It’s something similar here—despite the conservative nightmare of class warfare, of the poor rising up to slaughter the wealthy, when inequality fuels violence, it is mostly the poor preying on the poor. This point is made with a great metaphor for the consequences of societal inequality.41 The frequency of “air rage”—a passenger majorly, disruptively, dangerously losing it over something on a flight—has been increasing. Turns out there’s a substantial predictor of it: if the plane has a first-class section, there’s almost a fourfold increase in the odds of a coach passenger having air rage. Force coach passengers to walk through first class when boarding, and you more than double the chances further. Nothing like starting a flight by being reminded of where you fit into the class hierarchy. And completing the parallel with violent crime, when air rage is boosted in coach by reminders of inequality, the result is not a crazed coach passenger sprinting into first class to shout Marxist slogans. It’s the guy being awful to the old woman sitting next to him, or to the flight attendant.*

...a much younger woman, one of those round-faced, tiny-featured women who were touted as beauties though they were not in fact particularly beautiful. They were simply the daughters of wealthy families powerful enough to demand that the concept of beauty be expanded to include them.

His body is living, breathing art, all long lines and corded strength. He seems made for a woman to touch, and I so badly want to.

Developing a wealthy mind-set requires the understanding of the concept that the way you spend, invest, and manage ten naira is the way you will spend, invest, and manage ten million.

[Author's Note:] When my grandmother came to the United States from Puerto Rico in the 1940s, she was a beautiful, glamorous woman from a wealthy family in the capital city, and the young bride of a dashing naval officer. She expected to be received as such. Instead, she found that people here had a very reductionist view of what it meant to be Puerto Rican, of what it meant to be Latinx. Everything about her confused her new neighbors: her skin tone, her hair, her accent, her notions. She wasn't what they expected a boricua to be. My grandmother spent much of her adult life in the States but didn't always feel welcome here. She resented the perpetual gringo misconceptions about her. She never got past that resentment, and the echoes of her indignation still have some peculiar manifestations in my family today. One of the symptoms is me. Always raging against a perceived slight, always fighting against ignorance in mainstream ideas about ethnicity and culture. I'm acutely aware that the people coming to our southern border are not one faceless brown mass but singular individuals, with stories and backgrounds and reasons for coming that are unique. I feel this awareness in my spine, in my DNA. So I hoped to present one of those unique personal stories - a work of fiction - as a way to honor the hundreds of thousands of stories we may never get to hear. And in so doing, I hope to create a pause where the reader may begin to individuate. When we see migrants on the news, we may remember: these people are people.

The fact that I’d become so wealthy so soon before my demise, and the unexplained disappearance of my money, only added gasoline to the firestorm of speculation. To this day, there remains no true account of my sad passing. For most of my life I had been a no-one, a lonely young woman who had never known happiness, and only dreamed of love. In death I became prettier, more important, because the public learned that in the days leading up to my death, I had found both happiness and love. I had just begun to live when my life ended, making what happened all the more tragic

If you had to choose a moment in history to be born, and you did not know ahead of time who you would be—you didn’t know whether you were going to be born into a wealthy family or a poor family, what country you’d be born in, whether you were going to be a man or a woman—if you had to choose blindly what moment you’d want to be born, you’d choose now. —Barack Obama, 2016 CHAPTER 4 PROGRESSOPHOBIA

What woman could resist a handsome, wealthy, powerful, nice man who was also just a tiny bit broken inside? It meant that in spite of him seemingly having everything, there was something he still needed from me.

Sociologist Rachel Sherman, who wrote a book called Uneasy Street about the anxieties of wealthy Manhattanites, had one woman nearly cancel their interview because Sherman used the word “affluent” in an outreach email.

YORK. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth, How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph, like an Amazonian trull, Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! But that thy face is, vizard-like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds, I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd, Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen; Unless the adage must be verified, That beggars mounted run their horse to death. 'T is beauty that doth oft make women proud; But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small. 'T is virtue that doth make them most admir'd; The contrary doth make thee wond'red at. 'T is government that makes them seem divine; The want thereof makes thee abominable. Thou art as opposite to every good As the Antipodes are unto us, Or as the south to the Septentrion. O tiger's heart wrapp'd in a woman's hide! How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible; Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Bid'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish: Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will; For raging wind blows up incessant showers, And when the rage allays the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies, And every drop cries vengeance for his death, 'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman.

This was distressing development. Charlotte could contend with Jane's low opinion of herself, her unfair prejudice against the Society, her unwillingness to picture herself as respectable or wealthy. But if Jane was in love, well, that was that. Jane would not be coming to London with them or joining the Society. Love trumped everything in a woman's life. More than ambition. Respectability. Common sense. Love, they'd both been taught, conquers all.

Well?” He thought about it now. “I think a woman’s sphere can be taxing, and perhaps for you, as you indicate, boring. I would hate to think of you being bored! I— I am rather afraid I would bore you. I am not a wealthy or an educated man.” “But you are a brave one. You fought, and I suppose you will again.” Catherine stared intently into his eyes. “Captain Schuyler, if you would let me be me, you would never bore me. I truly do want to ride, dance, laugh, and

I won’t let anyone talk to my wife that way, Gray said, his voice with a steely edge. I know that underneath that expensive tux you’re nothing but a mama’s boy sucking off your father’s money and looking for a wealthy woman to keep you doing nothing for the rest of your life. I just want you to understand that beneath my tux is a rough and tumble cowboy who will kick your ever-loving ass to hell and back if you ever talk about my wife in derogatory terms again.

The shoes always tell the story,” said the shoe poet. “Not always,” I countered. “Yes, always. Your boots, they are expensive, well made. That tells me that you come from a wealthy family. But the style is one made for an older woman. That tells me they probably belonged to your mother. A mother sacrificed her boots for her daughter. That tells me you are loved, my dear. And your mother is not here, so that tells me that you are sad, my dear. The shoes tell the story.

It was not as if he did not know what living in Lagos could do to a woman married to a young and wealthy man, how easy it was to slip into paranoid about 'Lagos girls,' those sophisticated monsters of glamour who swallowed husbands whole, slithering them down their throats.

She isn’t just any woman. She’s different.” “So every man has said since time immemorial.” “Yes, that’s true. I’ve met plenty of women, Mr. Sutton. From a young age, I have had mistresses whose beauty and skills would astound you. Skills they taught to a young man, because I was ever so rich. I also got to know them—courtesans are living, breathing women, you might be surprised to learn. With dreams and ambitions, some longing for a better life, one in which they won’t have to rely on wealthy men’s sons for survival. I became quite good friends with some of the ladies and am still. And then I met Violet.” Mr. Sutton was listening but striving to look uninterested. “Another courtesan?” “She’s neither one thing nor the other. Which is why I say she’s different. She’s not from the upper-class families whose mothers throw their daughters at me with alarming ruthlessness. She’s not a courtesan, selling her body and skills in exchange for diamonds and riches. She’s not a street girl from the gutter, selling her body to survive. She’s not a middle-class daughter, striving to live spotlessly and not shame her parents. Violet faces the world on her own terms, making a living the best she can with the skills she has. And everywhere, everyone has tried to stop her. They’ve used her body to pay their debts. They’ve used her cleverness to bring them clients. They’ve used her skills at understanding people to make them money. Everyone in her entire life has used her in every capacity she has, and yet, she still stands tall and faces the world. They’ve beaten her down at every turn, and still she rises. This is a woman of indomitable spirit. And I want to set her free.

You may think you know the story. Oh, heard that one, have you? Well, we say again: you may think you know the story. By all accounts it's a good one: a penniless, orphaned young woman becomes a governess in a wealthy household, catches the eye of the rich and stern master, and (sigh) falls deeply in love. It's all very passionate and swoonworthy, but before they can be married, a - gasp! - terrible treachery is revealed. Then there's fire and despair, some aimless wandering, starvation, a little bit of gaslighting, but in the end, the romance works out. The girl (Miss Eyre) gets the guy (Mr. Rochester). They live happily ever after. Which means everybody's happy, right? Um ... no. We have a different tale to tell. (Don't we always?) And what we're about to reveal is more than a simple reimagining of one of literature's most beloved novels. This version, dear reader, is true. There really was a girl. (Two girls, actually.) There was, indeed, a terrible treachery and a great fire. But throw out pretty much everything else you know about the story. This isn't going to be like any classic romance you've ever read.

I believe most Afghan men, on an individual level, are far from extremist or fundamentalist. Hope rests with those men, who control what happens to their daughters. Behind every discreetly ambitious young Afghan woman with budding plans to take on the world, there is an interesting father. And in every successful grown woman who has managed to break new ground and do something women usually do not, there is a determined father, who is redefining honor and society by promoting his daughter. There will always be a small group of elite women with wealthy parents who can choose to go abroad or to take high positions in politics. They will certainly inspire others, but in order for significant numbers of women to take advantage of higher education and participate in the economy on a larger scale, it will take powerful men educating many other men

The suggestion had come from Cyrus H. McCormick, one of America’s richest men, who’d donated $800 (about $25,000 today)—nearly half the total cost. McCormick was not only an extraordinarily wealthy individual but powerful in all the ways a man can be. At six feet tall and weighing two hundred pounds, he was a “massive Thor of industry

Theophilus had usurped Elizabeth’s domestic authority and brought another woman into their home. Twenty-three-year-old Sarah Rumsey, one of his most devout parishioners, had moved in, supposedly to help with the household chores. But Sarah was a teacher by trade and came from a wealthy family; Elizabeth knew she was no servant but a spy.

In my criminal work anything that wears skirts is a lady, until the law proves her otherwise. From the frayed and slovenly petticoats of the woman who owns a poultry stand in the market and who has grown wealthy by selling chickens at twelve ounces to the pound, or the silk sweep of Mamie Tracy, whose diamonds have been stolen down on the avenue...

herself changes too. In current DC Comics continuity, Catwoman is a wealthy socialite named Selina Kyle, rather ambiguous in her aims. Sometimes she works with criminals and breaks the law and other times she allies with Batman or the Justice League and enforces it. Her domain is Gotham City’s East End, and she protects its residents through whatever means she sees fit.

If you had to choose a moment in history to be born, and you did not know ahead of time who you would be—you didn’t know whether you were going to be born into a wealthy family or a poor family, what country you’d be born in, whether you were going to be a man or a woman—if you had to choose blindly what moment you’d want to be born, you’d choose now. —Barack Obama, 2016

But Beatrice Blaine! There was a woman! Early pictures taken on her father's estate at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, or in Rome at the Sacred Heart Convent—an educational extravagance that in her youth was only for the daughters of the exceptionally wealthy—showed the exquisite delicacy of her features, the consummate art and simplicity of her clothes. A brilliant education she had—her youth passed in renaissance glory, she was versed in the latest gossip of the Older Roman Families; known by name as a fabulously wealthy American girl to Cardinal Vitori and Queen Margherita and more subtle celebrities that one must have had some culture even to have heard of. She learned in England to prefer whiskey and soda to wine, and her small talk was broadened in two senses during a winter in Vienna. All in all Beatrice O'Hara absorbed the sort of education that will be quite impossible ever again; a tutelage measured by the number of things and people one could be contemptuous of and charming about; a culture rich in all arts and traditions, barren of all ideas, in the last of those days when the great gardener clipped the inferior roses to produce one perfect bud.

Moral sense is almost completely ignored by modern society. We have, in fact, suppressed its manifestations. All are imbued with irresponsibility. Those who discern good and evil, who are industrious and provident, remain poor and are looked upon as morons. The woman who has several children, who devotes herself to their education, instead of to her own career, is considered weak-minded. If a man saves a little money for his wife and the education of his children, this money is stolen from him by enterprising financiers. Or taken by the government and distributed to those who have been reduced to want by their own improvidence and the shortsightedness of manufacturers, bankers, and economists. Artists and men of science supply the community with beauty, health, and wealth. They live and die in poverty. Robbers enjoy prosperity in peace. Gangsters are protected by politicians and respected by judges. They are the heroes whom children admire at the cinema and imitate in their games. A rich man has every right. He may discard his aging wife, abandon his old mother to penury, rob those who have entrusted their money to him, without losing the consideration of his friends. ...Ministers have rationalized religion. They have destroyed its mystical basis. But they do not succeed in attracting modern men. In their half-empty churches they vainly preach a weak morality. They are content with the part of policemen, helping in the interest of the wealthy to preserve the framework of present society. Or, like politicians, they flatter the appetites of the crowd.

But this is till the same girl who once lived in the steppes, wild and indomitable. Even when she ceased to play in the falling snow, the snow continued to fall within her soul. She never sough lovers among the wealthy men and the crown princes who prostrated themselves before her; her heart, like her voice, remained faultless. The reputation, temperament and talent of the woman partook of exactly the same crystalline transparency and icy clarity. ("The Glass Of Blood")

Here at Hajj, I was experiencing a taste of the same poison. While the women in my tent weren't nearly as wealthy or polished as the bewitching woman at al-Multaqa, they subscribed to the same view, deciding (based on skin color and ethnicity) that I surely must be a handmaid or at best nanny to a poor Saudi family who couldn't afford the much better Filipina maids, having instead to resort to Pakistani or worse, Bengali help. In fact I did remember one Saudi woman in the tent asking me if I was Bengali.

I use my own interpretation of Virginia Woolf’s phrase “a room of one’s own” to explain historical differences within the continuity of women’s lives.19 Women, throughout history, live within the confines of patriarchy. Bennett describes this as the patriarchal equilibrium. Regardless of how much freedom women have, they always have less than men. Yet the patriarchal equilibrium is a continuum, not a fixed standard. The boundaries of patriarchy wax and wane; the size of a woman’s room—the space where she is able to make her own choices—changes. Some women have bigger rooms, such as wealthy women with husbands and fathers among the highest social classes. Some women have smaller rooms, such as poorer women from families with little political and social influence. Historical circumstances, such as the aftermath of the Black Death in Europe, temporarily expanded women’s rooms by increasing their independence as wage earners, while other historical circumstances, such as Athenian democracy, made women’s rooms smaller.

Early eighteenth-century Italy saw facial powder at the center of the biggest scandal ever to befall a cosmetics manufacturer. A woman named Signora Toffana, who was well known in upper-class social circles, created a face powder that contained lead and arsenic and sold it to the wives of noblemen and the wealthy. The more affectionate the husband was with pecks on his wife’s cheeks, the faster he died from the toxic powder. An estimated 600 husbands died this way, and Toffana was executed as an accomplice in their deaths.

After nearly three years of dealing with Winder, throughout all of their delicate negotiations and volatile truces, she finally understood: he recognized her as a true patriot, someone who didn’t want to denigrate the South so much as nudge it back to where it belonged, a citizen stuck in a prodigal country. Because she was a woman—a wealthy, socially prominent woman at that—he tempered his suspicions with decency and Southern manners. He respected her dedication to her cause even as it diverged from his own, and the constant monitoring and attempts at entrapment were merely requirements of his job.

It didn't seem like we had to do with less at all. It felt like exactly the opposite. Having this women stay with use made us feel very well off. This is why my mum is a genius. She could've told us a million times that we were lucky to have what we had- three meals a day, clothes to wear, a roof over our heads - and we would never have believed her because we heard these cliches all the time and they didn't make us feel lucky. But allowing someone who had even less than we did to live with us made us feel incredibly fortunate, wealthy even. This woman was so appreciative and grateful, and always made us feel like we were benefactors sent from God to help her through. p130

To spend a lot of money on women that you have not had sex with is also a bad idea for a range of other reasons. First, you risk making a woman feel uncomfortable, either by making her feel like she owes you something or by making her feel like a whore because you expect sex in return. Second, it costs too much, so it is not even possible to do this with every woman you want to have sex with unless you are rich. Third, it is a gamble, not an investment, as you are not guaranteed sex in return. Fourth, it makes you look inadequate if you appear to try to impress a woman with your wealth. Finally, it is unnecessary, as most women are not attracted to wealthy males, but masculine males.

I vowed to myself that day that I would be wealthy when I grew up. It was my birthday-candle wish. I stood in that tiny dining room on stained carpet, in front of the yard-sale table, and I promised myself something better. I will never live like this when I have the ability to prevent it. I was vehement in this: someday I would be rich. I’m not supposed to say that, I know. Social media is filled with hundreds of male CEOs and self-made entrepreneurs who tout the power of wealth and the justification for achieving it. But, if you’re a woman, it’s frowned upon. It’s impolite. It’s not something good girls do. Good girls don’t talk about money, and they certainly don’t claim it as a life goal, regardless of their reasons why.

Oscar’s breath warmed the back of her head, his lips brushing against her hair, loosened from a braid. He drew a lock away from her neck and kissed the skin just beneath her earlobe, against the throb of her quickening pulse. Like the blackness outside the dome of lamplight, there seemed to be nothing more in the world than his lips, his touch, and the flood of heat consuming her. With a gentle nudge, Oscar turned her toward him. He looked at her the way he had in the Grampains meadow-as if she was the most fascinating woman he’d ever seen. Under his gaze she felt fascinating, too. Capivating…wanted. He traced her jaw with his lips, kissing the angle of her neck ever so tenderly, as though he weren’t certain she wanted him, too. Camille closed the inch of space left between them, her body pressing against his. The muscles in his chest and arms tightened. He was wanted, and she needed to show him how much. No one was there to watch, no one to judge, or tell her the lips caressing her were unworthy of tasting her skin. With those very thoughts, Oscar’s grip loosened. His lips retreated. “This isn’t right,” he whispered, catching his breath. Camille stared at him, her hurt and disappointment plain on her face. “You’re engaged, Camille.” He looked around the room. His eyes rested on the bed. “I shouldn’t be here.” All of a sudden, Camille completely and fully detested Randall. Good, sweet, well-meaning Randall infuriated her with his mere existence, with his big sapphire ring and his marriage proposal and his bright, wealthy future as the savior of Rowen & Company. She didn’t want any of it if it meant she couldn’t have Oscar’s kisses, the return of his hands, and his body pressed close to her own. “I want you here,” she said, the words unable to express the desires stampeding her mind. Oscar licked his lips but stepped toward the doorway. “I can’t. If you’re going to marry Randall-“ Camille hushed him. “No, don’t. Please, don’t.” She didn’t want to hear Randall’s name coming from Oscar’s lips, not when she so desperately wanted to kiss them. “He’s not here. And you are, and…what if you stayed?” she asked, unable to believe the words had come from her mouth. He lost the tense hold of his shoulders and stared at her with disbelief. “Nothing improper, of course,” she added quickly. “What if you just stayed until…until I fell asleep?” Citrus and cloves charged through her sense with their dizzying effect as Oscar stepped back inside the room. He tilted his head and looked sideways at her. “Just until you fall asleep?” She nodded, her throat too tight with nerves to speak.

Concerns about relative position also appear to affect labor force participation by much more than traditional economic factors. The economists David Neumark and Andrew Postlewaite, for example, investigated the labor force status of three thousand pairs of full sisters, one of whom in each pair did not work outside the home. Their aim was to discover what determined whether the other sister in each pair would seek paid employment. None of the usual economic suspects mattered much—not the local unemployment, vacancy, and wage rates, not the other sister’s education and experience. A single variable in their study explained far more of the variance in labor force participation rates than any other: a woman whose sister’s husband earned more than her own husband was 16 to 25 percent more likely than others to seek paid employment.43 As the essayist H. L. Mencken observed, “A wealthy man is one who earns $100 a year more than his wife’s sister’s husband.

You're young, though; you'll make a go of it. Just look at her across the road." It was true, Vivien's life had come up roses in the end, but there were a few marked differences between them. "She had a wealthy uncle who took her in," said Dolly quietly. "She's an heiress, married to a famous writer. And I'm..." She bit her bottom lip, anxious not to start crying again. "I'm..." "Well, you're not entirely alone, are you, silly girl?" Lady Gwendolyn had held out her bag of sweets then and for the first time ever offered one to Dolly. It had taken a moment to realize what the old woman was suggesting, but when she did, Dolly had reached tentatively inside the bag to withdraw a red and green gobstopper. She'd held it in her hand, fingers closed around it, aware that it was melting against her warm palm. Dolly had answered solemnly: "I have you." Lady Gwendolyn had sniffed and looked away. "We have each other, I suppose," she'd said, in a voice made fluty by unexpected emotion.

We are paying for and even submitting to the dictates of an ever-increasing, unceasingly-spawning class of human beings who should never have been born at all.1 —Margaret Sanger, The Pivot of Civilization In 2009, Hillary Clinton came to Houston, Texas, to receive the Margaret Sanger award from Planned Parenthood. Sanger was the founder of Planned Parenthood and the award is its highest prize. In receiving the award, Hillary said of Sanger, “I admire Margaret Sanger enormously, her courage, her tenacity, her vision. I am really in awe of her. There are a lot of lessons we can learn from her life and the cause she launched and fought for and sacrificed so greatly.”2 What was Margaret Sanger’s vision? What was the cause to which she devoted her life? Sanger is known as a champion of birth control, of providing women with the means to avoid unwanted pregnancies. But the real Margaret Sanger was very different from how she’s portrayed in Planned Parenthood brochures. The real Margaret Sanger did not want women in general to limit their pregnancies. She wanted white, wealthy, educated women to have more children, and poor, uneducated, black women to have none. “Unwanted” for Sanger didn’t mean unwanted by the mother—it meant unwanted by Sanger. Sanger’s influence contributed to the infamous Tuskegee experiments in which poor blacks were deliberately injected with syphilis without their knowledge. Today the Tuskegee Project is falsely portrayed as an example of southern backwardness and American bigotry; in fact, it was a progressive scheme carried out with the very eugenic goals that Margaret Sanger herself championed. In 1926, Sanger spoke to a Women’s Chapter of the Ku Klux Klan in New Jersey about her solution for reducing the black birthrate. She also sponsored a Negro Project specifically designed, in her vocabulary, to get rid of “human beings who should never have been born.” In one of her letters Sanger said, “We do not want word to get out that we are trying to exterminate the Negro population.”3 The racists loved it; other KKK speaking invitations followed. Now it may seem odd that a woman with such views would be embraced by Planned Parenthood—even odder that she would be a role model for Hillary Clinton. Why would they celebrate Sanger given her racist philosophy? In

Emma, calm down. I had to know-" I point my finger in his face, almost touching his eyeball. "It's one thing for me to give your permission to look into it. But I'm pretty sure looking into it without my consent is illegal. In fact, I'm pretty sure everything that woman does is illegal. Do you even know what the Mafia is, Galen?" His eyebrows lift in surprise. "She told you who she is? I mean, who she used to be?" I nod. "While you were checking in with Grom. Once in the Mob, always in the Mob, if you ask me. How else would she get all her money? But I guess you wouldn't care about that, since she buys you houses and cars and fake IDs." I snatch my wrist away and turn back toward our hotel. At least, I hope it's our hotel. Galen laughs. "Emma, it's not Rachel's money; it's mine." I whirl on him. "You are a fish. You don't have a job. And I don't think Syrena currency has any of our presidents on it." Now "our" means I'm human again. I wish I could make up my mind. He crosses his arms. "I earn it another way. Walk to the Gulfarium with me, and I'll tell you how." The temptation divides me like a cleaver. I'm one part hissy fit and one part swoon. I have a right to be mad, to press charges, to cut Rachel's hair while she's sleeping. But do I really want to risk the chance that she keeps a gun under her pillow? Do I want to miss the opportunity to scrunch my toes in the sand and listen to Galen's rich voice tell me how a fish came to be wealthy? Nope, I don't. Taking care to ram my shoulder into him, I march past him and hopefully in the right direction. When he catches up to me, his grin threatens the rest of my hissy fit side, so I turn away, fixing my glare on the waves. "I sell stuff to humans," he says. I glance at him. He's looking at me, his expression every bit as expectant as I feel. I hate this little game of ours. Maybe because I'm no good at it. He won't tell me more unless I ask. Curiosity is one of my most incurable flaws-and Galen knows it. Still, I already gave up a perfectly good tantrum for him, so I feel like he owes me. Never mind that he saved my life today. That was so two hours ago. I lift my chin. "Rachel says I'm a millionaire," he says, his little knowing smirk scrubbing my nerves like a Brillo pad. "But for me, it's not about the money. Like you, I have a soft spot for history." Crap, crap, crap. How can he already know me this well? I must be as readable as the alphabet. What's the use? He's going to win, every time.

If there was anything really wrong with Shady Hill, anything that you could put your finger on, it was the fact that the village had no public library – no foxed copies of Pascal, smelling of cabbage; no broken sets of Dostoevski and George Eliot; no Galsworthy, even; no Barrie and no Bennett. This was the chief concern of the Village Council during Marcie’s term. The library partisans were mostly newcomers to the village; the opposition whip was Mrs Selfredge, a member of the Council and a very decorous woman, with blue eyes of astonishing brilliance and inexpressiveness. Mrs Selfredge often spoke of the chosen quietness of their life. ‘We never go out,’ she would say, but in such a way that she seemed to be expressing not some choice but a deep vein of loneliness. She was married to a wealthy man much older than herself, and they had no children; indeed, the most indirect mention of sexual fact brought a deep color to Mrs Selfredge’s face. She took the position that a library belonged in that category of public service that might make Shady Hill attractive to a development. This was not blind prejudice. Carsen Park, the next village, had let a development inside its boundaries, with disastrous results to the people already living there. Their taxes had been doubled, their schools had been ruined. That there was any connection between reading and real estate was disputed by the partisans of the library, until a horrible murder – three murders, in fact – took place in one of the cheese-box houses in the Carsen Park development, and the library project was buried with the victims.

The plot of Love on a Mortal Lease is not unlike those Shakespear would use later, nor unlike those of commonplace Victorian works. The heroine, Rachel Gwynne, has dead parents, as is the case from Oliver Twist (1837) through hundreds of other ensuing tripledeckers. Rachel is a novelist – most of Shakespear’s heroines would be writers – in love with a military man many years her senior. After he refuses to marry her because he fears his mother will dislike Rachel and therefore disinherit him, Rachel becomes his mistress. Once the snobby old mother meets Rachel by happenstance in London, however, they immediately adore each other, and the Colonel may now safely marry Rachel – though she doesn’t love him anymore, and he seems none too fond of her, either. They muddle along in unhappy matrimony until Rachel conveniently discovers (as we’ve known for a while) that the Colonel has had another longtime mistress, a stupid society girl, throughout the course of their marriage, and even during their preceding affair. When the Colonel even more conveniently falls on his head and dies, Rachel is made a wealthy widow in her mid-twenties, free to marry a nice young writer who knows about, but forgives her, her former relationship. A happily wish-fulfilling story, perhaps, for a young woman writer in a bad marriage, and Rachel has some interesting ideas about her profession: speaking of clever girls who scribble, she hopes for the day that “the cleverness and the scribbling . . . fall from her, like a disguise, and she stands revealed in her true form – then she may never write another word, or she may write something immortal.”8

Vivien (spelled the same way as Vivien Leigh, lucky thing) was quite possibly the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. She had a heart-shaped face, deep brown hair that gleamed in its Victory roll, and full curled lips painted scarlet. Her eyes were wide set and framed by dramatic arched brows just like Rita Hayworth's or Gene Tierney's, but it was more than that which made her beautiful. It wasn't the fine skirts and blouses she wore, it was the way she wore them, easily, casually; it was the strings of pearls strung airily around her neck, the brown Bentley she used to drive before it was handed over like a pair of boots to the Ambulance Service. It was the tragic history Dolly had learned in dribs and drabs- orphaned as a child, raised by an uncle, married to a handsome, wealthy author named Henry Jenkins, who held an important position with the Ministry of Information. "Dorothy? Come and put my sheets to rights and fetch my sleep mask." Ordinarily, Dolly might've been a bit envious to have a woman of that description living at such close quarters, but with Vivien it was different. All her life, Dolly had longed for a friend like her. Someone who really understood her (not like dull old Caitlin or silly frivolous Kitty), someone with whom she could stroll arm in arm down Bond Street, elegant and buoyant, as people turned to look at them, gossiping behind their hands about the dark leggy beauties, their careless charm. And now, finally, she'd found Vivien. From the very first time they'd passed each other walking up the Grove, when their eyes had met and they'd exchanged that smile- secretive, knowing, complicit- it had been clear to both of them that they were two of a kind and destined to be the very best of friends.

Never be guided by arbitrariness in law, which tends to have a good deal of influence on ignorant men who take pride in being clever. Let the tears of the poor find in you more compassion, but not more justice, than the briefs of the wealthy. Try to discover the truth in all the promises and gifts of the rich man, as well as in the poor man’s sobs and entreaties. When there can and should be a place for impartiality, do not bring the entire rigor of the law to bear on the offender, for the reputation of the harsh judge is not better than that of the compassionate one. If you happen to bend the staff of justice, let it be with the weight not of a gift, but of mercy. If you judge the case of one of your enemies, put your injury out of your mind and turn your thoughts to the truth of the question. Do not be blinded by your own passion in another’s trial, for most of the time the mistakes you make cannot be remedied, and if they can, it will be to the detriment of your good name and even your fortune. If a beautiful woman comes to you to plead for justice, turn your eyes from her tears and your ears from her sobs, and consider without haste the substance of what she is asking if you do not want your reason to be drowned in her weeping and your goodness in her sighs. If you must punish a man with deeds, do not abuse him with words, for the pain of punishment is enough for the unfortunate man without the addition of malicious speech. Consider the culprit who falls under your jurisdiction as a fallen man subject to the conditions of our depraved nature, and to the extent that you can, without doing injury to the opposing party, show him compassion and clemency, because although all the attributes of God are equal, in our view mercy is more brilliant and splendid than justice.

JOIN ILLUMINATI ORDER” CALL +41 76 791 8253 FOR RICH, WEALTH, FAME, LOVE & LUCK. Welcome to the great temple of Illuminati worldwide. Are you a Pastor, Politician, Business man or woman, Musician or an Artist, do you want to be famous or you want to become rich or powerful you can achieve your dreams by being a member of the Illuminati with this all your dreams and heart desire can be fully accomplish People say that the Illuminati are exceptionally wealthy. Is that true? It's true that all twelve members of the Ruling Council are wealthy, but money, for us, simply funds our mission, nothing else. We are not worshippers of Mammon, as our accusers would have you believe. You were born free and die free but will you live free? As long as habit and routine dictate the pattern of living, new dimensions of the soul will not emerge. "Wealth" of the Illuminati is in the form of priceless treasures, not "liquid" money. Some members of the Illuminati have acquired considerable wealth; if you want to join Illuminati contact the priest. To join everyone can join but are you going to keep the secret? BRIEFLY this is a spiritual worshiping whereby it helps you to be successfully in whatever you're doing in life. All men and women are welcome to join this Temple of Only Success, Respect and Super-Rich Model's DJ and rappers welcome Politicians come and wetness Bring your lovers name only and see the changes Business men and women Students come and clean your future GET OUT OF POVERTY Get off the poverty road and onto the path of prosperity now. If money has been tight and things haven't been going very well financially, Our Illuminati society will empower you to change your life and live your life to the fullest. K¬indly conta¬ct us on +41767918253 or email: info786@pm.me Contact Person Agent Adam Address: Kronenstrasse 25 9230 Flawil Switzerland

Tom often met Winterborne for a quick lunch at one of the cook shops or chop houses between their respective offices. It was on one of these occasions that Winterborne revealed West Ravenel had just become engaged to marry Phoebe, Lady Clare, a young widow with two small sons, Justin and Stephen. “I suspected he would,” Tom said, pleased by the revelation. “I went to Jenner’s Club with him the night before last, and she was all he wanted to talk about.” “I heard about that,” Winterborne commented. “It seems you and Ravenel encountered a bit of trouble.” Tom rolled his eyes. “Lady Clare’s former suitor came to the table with a pistol in hand. It wasn’t nearly as interesting as it sounds. He was soon disarmed and hauled off by a night porter.” He leaned back in his seat as the barmaid set plates of chilled crab salad and celery in front of them. “But before that happened, Ravenel was rambling on about Lady Clare, and how he wasn’t good enough for her because of his disreputable past, and how he was worried about setting a bad example for her children.” Winterborne’s black eyes were keen with interest. “What did you say?” Tom shrugged. “The match is to his advantage, and what else matters? Lady Clare is wealthy, beautiful, and the daughter of a duke. As for her sons … no matter what example you set, children insist on turning out how they will.” Tom took a swallow of ale before continuing. “Scruples always complicate a decision unnecessarily. They’re like those extra body parts none of us need.” Winterborne paused in the act of lifting a forkful of dressed crab to his lips. “What extra body parts?” “Things like the appendix. Male nipples. The external ears.” “I need my ears.” “Only the inner parts. The outer ear structure is superfluous in humans.” Winterborne looked sardonic. “I need them to hold up my hat.” Tom grinned and shrugged, conceding the point. “In any case, Ravenel has managed to win the hand of a fine woman. Good for him.” They lifted their glasses and clinked them in a toast.

He ought to be more clever in his murder attempt. Done properly, he could make a wealthy widow of you, and then you’d both have your happy ending.” Harry knew instantly that he shouldn’t have said it—the comment was the kind of cold-blooded sarcasm he had always resorted to when he felt the need to defend himself. He regretted it even before he saw Merripen out of the periphery of his vision. The Rom was giving him a warning shake of his head and drawing a finger across his throat. Poppy was red faced, her brows drawn in a scowl. “What a dreadful thing to say!” Harry cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said brusquely. “I was joking. It was in poor—” He ducked as something came flying at him. “What the devil—” She had thrown something at him, a cushion. “I don’t want to be a widow, I don’t want Michael Bayning, and I don’t want you to joke about such things, you tactless clodpole!” As all three of them stared at her openmouthed, Poppy leapt up and stalked away, her hands drawn into fists. Bewildered by the immediate force of her fury—it was like being stung by a butterfly—Harry stared after her dumbly. After a moment, he asked the first coherent thought that came to him. “Did she just say she doesn’t want Bayning?” “Yes,” Win said, a smile hovering on her lips. “That’s what she said. Go after her, Harry.” Every cell in Harry’s body longed to comply. Except that he had the feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff, with one ill-chosen word likely to send him over. He gave Poppy’s sister a desperate glance. “What should I say?” “Be honest with her about your feelings,” Win suggested. A frown settled on Harry’s face as he considered that. “What’s my second option?” “I’ll handle this,” Merripen told Win before she could reply. Standing, he slung a great arm across Harry’s shoulders and walked him to the side of the terrace. Poppy’s furious form could be seen in the distance. She was walking down the drive to the caretaker’s house, her skirts and shoes kicking up tiny dust storms. Merripen spoke in a low, not unsympathetic tone, as if compelled to guide a hapless fellow male away from danger. “Take my advice, gadjo . . . never argue with a woman when she’s in this state. Tell her you were wrong and you’re sorry as hell. And promise never to do it again.” “I’m still not exactly certain what I did,” Harry said. “That doesn’t matter. Apologize anyway.” Merripen paused and added in whisper, “And whenever your wife is angry . . . for God’s sake, don’t try logic.” “I heard that,” Win said from the chaise.

She knew the effort it took to keep one’s exterior self together, upright, when everything inside was in pieces, broken beyond repair. One touch, one warm, compassionate hand, could shatter that hard-won perfect exterior. And then it would take years and years to restore it. This tiny, effeminate creature dressed in velvet suits, red socks, an absurdly long scarf usually wrapped around his throat, trailing after him like a coronation robe. He who pronounced, after dinner, “I’m going to go sit over here with the rest of the girls and gossip!” This pixie who might suddenly leap into the air, kicking one foot out behind him, exclaiming, “Oh, what fun, fun, fun it is to be me! I’m beside myself!” “Truman, you could charm the rattle off a snake,” Diana Vreeland pronounced. Hemingway - He was so muskily, powerfully masculine. More than any other man she’d met, and that was saying something when Clark Gable was a notch in your belt. So it was that, and his brain, his heart—poetic, sad, boyish, angry—that drew her. And he wanted her. Slim could see it in his hungry eyes, voraciously taking her in, no matter how many times a day he saw her; each time was like the first time after a wrenching separation. How to soothe and flatter and caress and purr and then ignore, just when the flattering and caressing got to be a bit too much. Modesty bores me. I hate people who act coy. Just come right out and say it, if you believe it—I’m the greatest. I’m the cat’s pajamas. I’m it! He couldn’t humiliate her vulnerability, her despair. Old habits die hard. Particularly among the wealthy. And the storytellers, gossips, and snakes. Is it truly a scandal? A divine, delicious literary scandal, just like in the good old days of Hemingway and Fitzgerald? The loss of trust, the loss of joy; the loss of herself. The loss of her true heart. An amusing, brief little time. A time before it was fashionable to tell the truth, and the world grew sordid from too much honesty. In the end as in the beginning, all they had were the stories. The stories they told about one another, and the stories they told to themselves. Beauty. Beauty in all its glory, in all its iterations; the exquisite moment of perfect understanding between two lonely, damaged souls, sitting silently by a pool, or in the twilight, or lying in bed, vulnerable and naked in every way that mattered. The haunting glance of a woman who knew she was beautiful because of how she saw herself reflected in her friend’s eyes. The splendor of belonging, being included, prized, coveted. What happened to Truman Capote. What happened to his swans. What happened to elegance. What truly was the price they paid, for the lives they lived. For there is always a price. Especially in fairy tales.

They say you’re never truly wealthy until you have something money can’t buy.

As a good-looking, wealthy, high-profile defense attorney, he could have any woman he wanted. And Ryan had plenty. Unfortunately, Ben knew all about them, and what Ryan did with them. In the bedroom, no less.

Cass didn’t know what she and Falco were looking for, but whatever it was, they weren’t going to find it rowing around wealthy neighborhoods in the dark. “This is pointless,” she said. “The man with the falcon mask could live in any of these palazzos, or none at all. Besides, we don’t even know if he has anything to do with this mess.” Falco shook his dark hair back from his face. “I was worried this would be a dead end, but I…” He trailed off. “You what?” Cass asked. Falco rubbed at the scar under his eye. “I wanted to see you,” he said. “I wanted to spend time with you.” Cass looked away from him. Again, she felt like someone was stabbing her between her ribs. “Maybe that’s pointless too,” she said. Their boat floated past a gondola. Two forms were visible in the moonlight. A man and woman lay intertwined on the base of the boat. Bare skin, gentle rocking. Falco followed her eyes. “You know that I care about you, Cass.” “But it doesn’t mean anything.” Cass tried to keep her voice from trembling. “Because it can’t lead to anything more.” Falco set aside the oars and turned her face toward his. “You’re wrong. It means everything. You mean everything.” He held her chin between his thumbs and forefingers. “Why do my feelings have to lead anywhere at all? Why can’t we just be here, now, in this moment?” His touch made shivers dance up and down her back. Maybe Falco was right. Why did she care so much about the future? Maybe she should just be thankful that they could be together here, right now. “Why can’t you just be who you are?” Falco asked, his lips moving toward hers. Because I don’t know who that is anymore. “You’re changing me,” she whispered. “I see everything differently now.” Cass didn’t fight it when Falco leaned in and kissed her. She didn’t resist as he tipped her gently backward and laid her down on the wooden bottom of the batèla. Just be who you are. Easy to say, but so difficult to do. Falco unfolded a blanket over her. “So you don’t get cold,” he said. “What’s going to keep you warm?” Cass asked softly, reaching up to tousle his hair. Falco laughed. “Trust me, I’m plenty warm.” “Prove it,” Cass said, pulling him down to her level.

Dennis made four resolutions as a young teenager: He would never be poor like his parents. (He is famously wealthy.) He would be universally admired and envied. (He has 500-plus young women who call him Daddy, and men nationwide who envy his sexual opportunities.) He would never let anyone — especially a woman — tell him what he could not do. (Unlike his father, Dennis never allows anyone to tell him no.) He would have a “little honey” to love and care for him for the rest of his life

She worked there for several months as a slave in a Mexican family until they sold her to a wealthy Hispanic man from Santa Fe, N.M. He also purchased another young captive Apache woman from New Mexico to accompany them. Both women were loaded onto an oxcart bound for Santa Fe in a journey that could take at least three months.

Fear is why Fascism’s emotional reach can extend to all levels of society. No political movement can flourish without popular support, but Fascism is as dependent on the wealthy and powerful as it is on the man or woman in the street—on those who have much to lose and those who have nothing at all.

some ways, this is the most difficult aspect of the role; it demands that Mariela portray a wealthy, professional, and mature woman, accustomed to control and decorous behavior, whose world has just been upended by her own child. One of Volpe’s favorite things

In cultures that practice polygyny, in which men are permitted to have more than one wife, the most desirable men often find several wives. Many women prefer to be the second or third wife of a high-status man rather than the sole wife of a low-status man. This can be explained by the “polygyny threshold hypothesis.” Stated simply, a woman can sometimes gain more resources by securing a third or a half of the bounty of a wealthy man who already has wives than she can by getting all of the resources of a poor man who has no wives.

The United States has the highest rate of infant mortality and the lowest life expectancy in comparison with other wealthy countries. An American woman is more likely to die as a result of pregnancy and childbirth than women in other countries of comparable wealth. That rate is higher now than it was in the 1990s, even though most of these deaths of mothers are avoidable.

But that is not what this conversation is about. Gender and class are different. Poor men still have the privileges of being men, even if they do not have the privileges of being wealthy. I learned a lot about systems of oppression and how they can be blind to one another by talking to black men. I was once talking about gender and a man said to me, ‘Why does it have to be you as a woman? Why not you as a human being?’ This type of question is a way of silencing a person’s specific experiences. Of course I am a human being, but there are particular things that happen to me in the world because I am a woman.

Mama, is that Aunt Eula’s chicken recipe?” Emily tore into a drumstick with enough fervor for both of them. “Sure is.” Her aunts had been up since before dawn cooking. The sweets table was piled with pies and sponge cake with fresh berries and Aunt Marline’s divinity fudge. She picked at her chicken, feeling her appetite improving with each bite of familiar cooking. “Can I have seconds, Mama?” “Of course. let me get some for you.” Alaine took Em’s plate to the buffet, still loaded with more food than an army could do away with. She chose a drumstick from the plate of chicken, then froze. “Now, Stella, it’s quaint,” Mrs. Mark Grafton, Pierce’s mother. Alaine stiffened. “They’ve done the best they can— and I think they rather expected us to enjoy a country luncheon.” “But chicken fricassee? For a wedding luncheon? Are they going to have us dance a reel next?” A woman younger than Mrs. Grafton, but bearing the same sharp dark eyes, tittered quietly. “I told Pierce they should have a fish course, at least. And a consommé. Of course I knew an aspic would be asking far too much.” “Pierce always did have an independent streak.” Stella said this as though it were a blight. “Marrying some country nobody when the Harris girls or Georgia Lawson would have—” “Not polite to speak of it now, dear,” Mrs. Grafton said with a tone that told Alaine it was only propriety keeping her from joining. Alaine seethed. Delphine wasn’t a nobody— she was better than any of these Perrysburg ninnies. “Pierce has his career to consider, that’s all I’m saying. She can’t go blundering about, mucking that up. After all, we stand to catch the ill effects of any mistakes she makes.” “I’ve advised Pierce how to handle himself, and he’ll make sure she knows her place. You needn’t concern yourself with your brother’s affairs.” Mrs. Grafton swept away in a wake of heady perfume, but not before Alaine heard her add in a sharp whisper, “He didn’t listen to me about marrying the girl, why do you think he’d listen about a fish course?” Neither Grafton woman had noticed Alaine; they were, Alaine presumed, well practiced in ignoring anything that didn’t benefit them specifically. Country nobody, indeed— Del would show them all up before Christmas. If the best chicken in the county wasn’t good enough for the Graftons, she would enjoy it double.


Weil’s sense of essaying was never limited to writing; it was also about honoring the conversations she had before and after her pen touched the page. She consistently tried to learn from those who had lived the concepts. When she studied oppression, she placed herself amidst Parisian factory workers. When she studied labor, she picked grapes in French vineyards. Through a class analysis, Weil’s actions could be understood as patronizing, being that she came from a wealthy family. But when we also consider that she came from a Jewish family and lived in an anti-Semitic society, and that she was a woman living in a patriarchal society, it is our clear-cut diagnoses and categorizations of her life that become troubled. What we are left with is a philosopher who grappled seriously, rigorously, and intelligently with her responsibilities to others in a context of tremendous brutality. When she is understood that way, Simone Weil becomes our teacher in the present.

Do not manhandle me. My answer is no. I'm not for sale." "But you don't have any family left," said Nicolas, raising an eyebrow. The next few moments blurred together into one messed-up vision. A fist flying into Nicolas's nose. A loud crack. Blood splattering on Camille's dress. Rémi putting his arm around me. Jane, Phillipa, and Marie racing up to see what the commotion was all about. The clicks of cameras. A nightmare. "This is private property. You're no longer guests of the château. Leave now," said Rémi as Nicolas scrambled up from the ground. "And stay away, far away from my fiancée, or I'll hunt you down." Jane, Marie, and Phillipa flanked my sides, supporting my shaky body. Phillipa hissed to Nicolas. "You're wrong. Sophie has a family. She has all of us. And her dad." I couldn't help but smile. What Phillipa said was true. I had everything. "He broke my nose," said Nicolas, holding his hand up to his face, blood pouring down like a waterfall. "I'm going to press charges against you, all of you, you pieces of merde." "Go ahead," said Rémi. "We may not be as wealthy as you are, but we're not doing so bad. You can try to destroy us, but if you know Sophie as well as I do, you know she fights back. And hard. Believe me. Nothing, not you, not me, will stand in her way. You're the only one with a reputation to lose---and from what I've read, most people think you're the scum of the earth." Camille walked up the steps. "I'm out of here." She stopped and looked over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sophie. I should have known. Small dick, small mind." "I do not have a small dick," screamed Nicolas, his face turning red. The guests from the Sunday lunch clasped their hands over their mouths. I felt like I was the star of a B movie. Who were these people? Cartoon characters? "Oh, yes, you have a small penis. The smallest one I've ever seen," said Camille, winking at me. "And you think with it. Now, take me back to Paris so I can get rid of you. That is, unless you want my Instagram to blow up. Don't forget. I have pictures of your cornichon." Nicolas raced after Camille. "You salope, those pictures are private." Camille placed her hands on her skinny hips. "For now," she said. I had to give Camille credit when it was due; she wasn't a brain-dead model, she was fierce.

If you had lived as a new Christian convert during the rule of the Roman Empire, one of your biggest challenges would have been dealing with the pagan philosophical propaganda that surrounded you. I call it paganosophy. In a Greco-Roman city, most statues depicted partial or total nudity. In the gymnasiums, male athletes worked out naked. In fact, the word gymnasium dates back to the Greek word gymnasion, which literally was a “school for training naked.” Pagan Greeks and Romans insisted there was nothing wrong with showing off a well chiseled body. This is an example of what Paul was speaking of when he wrote, “They worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator” (Rom. 1:25). Roman bathhouses were a popular place for men and women in the city to gather. There were times in history when men and women would occupy the same rooms in the bathhouse. At other times, cities would make decrees prohibiting it. We uploaded a highly viewed YouTube video that we taped in Beit She’an, Israel at the excavated ruins of this Roman city that was destroyed by an earthquake in the ninth century. The city’s ancient public toilets (latrines) had been unearthed. In Roman times there were public latrines in different cities for the benefit of the citizens, since only the wealthy could afford private latrines. The toilet seats, made of stone, were a couple feet long, with one end connected to the wall and the stones resting upon a base with water running beneath for drainage. There was enough space to allow a person to sit between each stone. No archaeological evidence indicated that dividers were used, and as people sat side by side on stones in a public latrine, they discussed business. Deals and contracts were made at the public toilet. Some of the terms we hear today were coined at the Roman toilet. When a person says they have to “do their business,” they’re using a term that originated from men who literally conducted business at the toilet. The signage at the Beit She’an site indicates that men and women shared the same large room, with men on one side of the room and women on the other. Today, we find ourselves returning to trends from the Roman Empire, where men are allowed to use women’s facilities, if they claim to identify as a woman that day. Attacks against women in their own facilities confirm that many of these males are there to take advantage of a ludicrous idea being promoted by the same spirits of the ancient Roman Empire.

Bennett describes this as the patriarchal equilibrium. Regardless of how much freedom women have, they always have less than men. Yet the patriarchal equilibrium is a continuum, not a fixed standard. The boundaries of patriarchy wax and wane; the size of a woman’s room—the space where she is able to make her own choices—changes. Some women have bigger rooms, such as wealthy women with husbands and fathers among the highest social classes. Some women have smaller rooms, such as poorer women from families with little political and social influence. Historical circumstances, such as the aftermath of the Black Death in Europe, temporarily expanded women’s rooms by increasing their independence as wage earners, while other historical circumstances, such as Athenian democracy, made women’s rooms smaller.

To be Black and a woman is to be drafted into targeted identity groups that often conflate classism, sexism, racism, genderism. This begins so early when you’re “the Only”: the only Black child at a predominantly white school, the only Black child in a neighborhood, the only Black child on a sports team, on a street, in a store. You may become a wealthy and highly educated Black woman, but still, when you’re seen, you’re seen as everything that a white supremacist society associates with being a Black woman: poor, uneducated, promiscuous, unattractive, sassy, loud. You walk into every room at a deficit. Unacceptable. Unaccepted.

No political movement can flourish without popular support, but Fascism is as dependent on the wealthy and powerful as it is on the man or woman in the street—on those who have much to lose and those who have nothing at all.

You know, my queen,” Lutian said thoughtfully, “there is another solution that I see.” She turned to look at Lutian, who was riding just behind them. “And that is?” “All you truly need for proof is Prince Christian’s heraldic emblem. Return home pregnant, with it, and they will have no choice except to accept your word for the baby’s father.” Christian was even more aghast at that proposition than he’d been at Adara’s. “And just who would be the father of her unborn child that she would pass off as mine?” Lutian straightened up in the saddle. “I humbly submit myself to Her Grace’s will to use my meek and virile body in any manner she sees fit.” Adara squelched a laugh at his kind offer. Leave it to Lutian to come up with such a solution. But if looks could kill, Lutian would be severed in twain by Christian’s heated glare. “I beg your pardon, fool?” Adara was almost amused by the anger in Christian’s tone. It would be nice if she could attribute it to jealousy, but she knew better. “Aye,” she said, wanting to nettle her husband even more. “It just might work.” Christian gaped at her. “You would bed the village idiot?” Lutian snorted at that. “Pray tell who is the greater idiot? The man who would see his son king or the one who is holding a beautiful woman in his lap, with full matrimonial rites to her, who refuses her, a throne, and a wealthy kingdom full of people to do his every bidding? I think, in the grand scheme of this, I am by far the wisest man here.” Lutian kicked his horse abreast of theirs and bowed low in his saddle to Adara. “Take me, my queen, and I will give you your heir. I will gladly lay myself down for your pleasure.” Christian’s nostrils flared in warning. “You lay yourself down for her pleasure, fool, and you won’t be getting back up. Ever.” Lutian went pale as he reined his horse away from them…out of Christian’s direct reach. “Very good, then, my prince.” He shifted his gaze to Adara. “My apologies, my queen, but you’re on your own.” “Lutian,” she cried in feigned outrage. “What about my problem?” Her fool took it good-naturedly. “Well, my lady, ’tis your problem. Sorry. I…um…I intend to live a long and fruitful life.” “Fruitful?” Christian asked with a gimlet stare. Lutian twisted up his face as he contemplated his choice of words. “Did I say fruitful? Methinks I spoke too soon. Suddenly I fear I may be impotent. Truly, I can no longer rise to any occasion. I shall be old and fruitless. My fruit is shriveling even as we speak.” -Lutian, Adara, & Christian

When she was twenty-four, Florence indicated her interest in the nursing profession, but her parents were strongly opposed. It needs to be noted that, in the nineteenth century, nurses did not enjoy the reputation that they enjoy today. In fact, the reputation they enjoy today is largely due to the reforms brought about by Florence Nightingale. Nineteenth-century nurses fell into two categories: There were nursing nuns, who achieved a modicum of the respect due to their hard work and lives of strict sacrifice. Lay nurses, however, were another story. They were widely assumed to be alcoholics and victims, if not willing participants, of sexual harassment from patients and other medical professionals. Outside the church, nursing was the last refuge of a woman who could find no other way to earn her living. It was not, in brief, the career path that a young lady brought up in a wealthy Victorian home would consider—unless that young lady were Florence Nightingale.

Venice was a contrast from Los Angeles itself, where you might see a woman with $15,000 tits, a face frozen in place by Botox, wobbling with her $4,000 Gucci bag right past a child with a sunken belly and exposed ribs encaging a heart too weak to scream.

When his teaching is more straightforward, it is no less baffling or challenging. Blessed are the meek (Mt 5:5); to look at a woman with lust is to commit adultery (Mt 5:28); forgive wrongs seventy times seven (Mt 18:22); you can't be my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions (Lk 14:33); no divorce (Mk 10:9); love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you (Mt 5:44). A passage that gives us the keys to the reign, or kingdom, of God is Matthew 25:31–46, the scene of the judgment of the nations: Then the king will say to those on his right hand, “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” As Mother Teresa put it, we meet Christ in the distressing disguise of the poor. Jesus’ teaching and witness is obviously relevant to social, economic, and political issues. Indeed, the Jewish leaders and the Romans (the powers that be of the time) found his teaching and actions disturbing enough to arrest him and execute him. A scene from the life of Clarence Jordan drives home the radicalism and relevance of Jesus’ message. In the early 1950s Clarence approached his brother, Robert Jordan, a lawyer and future state senator and justice of the Georgia Supreme Court, to legally represent Koinonia Farm. Clarence, I can't do that. You know my political aspirations. Why if I represented you, I might lose my job, my house, everything I've got. We might lose everything too, Bob. It's different for you. Why is it different? I remember, it seems to me, that you and I joined the church the same Sunday, as boys. I expect when we came forward the preacher asked me about the same question he did you. He asked me, “Do you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?” And I said, “Yes.” What did you say? I follow Jesus, Clarence, up to a point. Could that point by any chance be—the cross? That's right. I follow him to the cross, but not on the cross. I'm not getting myself crucified. Then I don't believe you're a disciple. You're an admirer of Jesus, but not a disciple of his. I think you ought to go back to the church you belong to, and tell them you're an admirer not a disciple. Well now, if everyone who felt like I do did that, we wouldn't have a church, would we? The question, Clarence said, is, “Do you have a church?”25 The early Christian community tried to live according to the values of the reign of God that Jesus proclaimed, to be disciples. The Jerusalem community was characterized by unlimited liability and total availability for each other, sharing until everyone's needs were met (Acts 2:43–47; 4:32–37).26 Paul's exhortation to live a new life in Christ in his letter to the Romans, chapters 12 through 15, has remarkable parallels to Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount in Matthew, chapters 5 through 7, and Luke 6:20–49.27 Both Jesus and Paul offer practical steps for conflict resolution and peacemaking. Similarly, the Epistle of James exhorts Christians to “be doers of the word and not merely hearers who deceive themselves” (1:22), and warns against class divisions (2:1–13) and the greed and corruption of the wealthy (5:1–6).

a woman of her understanding should already presume that marrying the wealthy would come with sacrifices. Jerry Roth told him yesterday that he would courier their prenuptial marriage decree and obviously from her mood, she had not received it.

People who are wealthy and good looking don’t know the joy of working to conquer a woman. In the bedroom I can be Bonaparte on the battlefield.

Most people think that money and love aren’t related topics. But allow me explain this to you in a realistic way. When someone criticizes you but doesn’t see your value, this person is trying to bargain your happiness. When someone doesn’t invest in a relationship, but instead complains about her needs and wants, this person is overpricing herself. When a woman invests more in her outer beautify than inner beauty, she is focusing on her brand, and not quality. When the cost of a relationship exceeds the quality of what you get, you are being cheated. And there’s no such thing as cost for quality, because very often the nicest people you find are also the easiest to hang out with, and the kindest. They make you feel like your life is easy despite any challenges along the way, and that you haven’t lost anything but instead gained a lot. When someone adds value to your life, well then, that person proves to be a great investment. And great investments are worth a lifetime. They require little to be maintained but give you plenty in return. You should never let go a good opportunity, in love and wealth. And if you’re smart enough to understand this, you can be in a fantastic relationship and wealthy at the same time. If you can’t, you probably undervalued yourself.

Very well. Since you won’t divulge her location, answer me this. Why would Miss Plum turn down a respectable offer of marriage from a gentleman such as my Bram?” “Why is it that ladies seem to believe I enjoy discussing these types of personal matters?” Mr. Skukman countered. Iris continued as if Mr. Skukman had not spoken. “Bram is a wealthy, eligible, and influential gentleman who owns his own castle—not to mention his stellar good looks.” “You’re his mother. Of course you’re going to believe he has stellar good looks.” “You don’t believe my Bram is handsome?” “Yet another topic I’m not comfortable discussing, but . . . I suppose if I really consider the matter, yes . . . Mr. Haverstein’s features are adequately arranged, but Miss Plum is not a lady who is impressed by a handsome face.” “She’s an actress.” Mr. Skukman let out a bit of a growl, which had Lucetta immediately stepping from behind the curtain. “Thank you, Mr. Skukman, but I think it might be for the best if I take it from here.” “Were you hiding behind the curtains?” Iris demanded. “Obviously,” Lucetta said as she headed across the room, stepping in between Iris, who was looking indignant, and Mr. Skukman, who’d adopted his most intimidating pose—a pose that didn’t appear to intimidate Iris in the least. “Now then,” Lucetta began, sending Mr. Skukman a frown when he cracked his knuckles, “from what I overheard, you’re here, Mrs. Haverstein, to learn why I rejected Bram’s offer.” Iris lifted her chin. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve sought you out.” “Lovely, and before we address those other reasons, allow me to say that the reason I refused Bram’s proposal was because your son was offering to marry a woman who doesn’t exist. He simply has yet to realize that.” Iris narrowed her eyes. “Bram could provide you with everything.” “I’m fairly good at providing for myself, Mrs. Haverstein.” Iris’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “What are you really playing at? Are you, by chance, hoping that because you turned him down, he’ll make you a better offer?” Lucetta’s brows drew together. “What else could he possibly offer me that would be more appealing than his name?” For a second, Iris looked a little taken aback, but she rallied quickly. “You may be the type of woman who prefers the freedom spinsterhood provides, so I would imagine you’re holding out for a nice place in the city, replete with all the fashionable amenities.” Even though Lucetta was well aware of the reputation most actresses were assumed to enjoy, and even though such insinuations normally never bothered her, a sliver of hurt wormed its way into her heart. Before she could summon up a suitable response, though, Abigail suddenly breezed into the room. “Lucetta is like a granddaughter to me, Iris, and as such, you will treat her accordingly, as well as apologize for your serious lack of manners,” Abigail said as she plunked her hands on her hips and scowled at her daughter. At first, it seemed that Iris wanted to argue the point, but then she blew out a breath and nodded Lucetta’s way. “My mother is quite right. That was unkind of me, and unfair. Forgive me.” Lucetta

Many a rich man’s bed is bigger than many a poor woman’s bedroom; his bedroom, her house.

Quelque chose vous dérangez, Your Grace?” Gabriel asked, watching her look nervously about the room. He didn’t remember her being a nervous woman. She had always been calm and serene. And beautiful, so incredibly beautiful. No doubt his presence here had unnerved her. Her attention snapped back to him, and he felt his heart thud slowly in his chest, the way it had all of those years ago whenever she looked at him. “I am not used to dancing, that is all,” she said. Her voice sounded more British than he remembered, but then she’d always spoken in French when he’d known her before. He had not even known English then. He’d been a young man, and she the mistress of a large chateau, the beautiful wife to a powerful and wealthy duke. She was a duchess, but more than that she was a kind woman. It was her kindness that slayed him. She’d cared enough about a nobody like him to tutor him in reading. He’d been poor and illiterate, but she told him he had a future. And then she’d given him one with her patient instruction. How many hours had he watched her mouth form words, her delicate fingers trace writing on the page, the firelight limn her hair until it glowed blue-black? The arch of her brow, the curve of her cheek, the tilt of her chin—he knew her face as well as his own. How could he have not fallen in love with her? “Not used to dancing? That is a tragedy. You should dance often, and with a man who worships the ground where you tread.” Her lovely blue eyes widened. “If I were to wait for a man like that, sir, I would never dance.” The music began and they came together, touching palms. “You are dancing with one such man now, madam,” he said and then stepped back. She

I’ll escort you to London in a few days, if you like. I had already planned to go there to see Prudence Mercer.” Audrey frowned. “Oh.” Christopher gave her a questioning glance. “I gather your opinion of her has not changed.” “Oh, it has. It’s worsened.” He couldn’t help but feel defensive on Prudence’s behalf. “Why?” “For the past two years, Prudence has earned a reputation as a shameless flirt. Her ambition to marry a wealthy man, preferably a peer, is known to everyone. I hope you have no illusions that she pined for you in your absence.” “I would hardly expect her to don sackcloth while I was gone.” “Good, because she didn’t. In fact, from all appearances you slipped from her mind completely.” Audrey paused before adding bitterly, “However, soon after John passed away and you became the new heir to Riverton, Prudence evinced a great deal of renewed interest in you.” Christopher showed no expression as he puzzled over this unwelcome information. It sounded nothing like the woman who had corresponded with him. Clearly Prudence was the victim of vicious rumors--and in light of her beauty and charm, that was entirely expected. However, he had no desire to start an argument with his sister-in-law. Hoping to distract her from the volatile subject of Prudence Mercer, he said, “I happened to meet one of your friends today, when I chanced upon her during a walk.” “Who?” “Miss Hathaway.” “Beatrix?” Audrey looked at him attentively. “I hope you were polite to her.” “Not especially,” he admitted. “What did you say to her?” He scowled into his teacup. “I insulted her hedgehog,” he muttered. Audrey looked exasperated. “Oh, good God.

A wealthy gentleman who imperils his life to rescue a young gentlewoman from a burning building must secretly harbor the desire to make said young woman his wife.

Planet Earth has rules that can’t be broken, no matter how rich or poor you are. You either have a nine to five job, you’re an artist constantly producing art, you’re a businessman, or you stay home cleaning and taking care of children. And no matter if you’re a man or a woman, the same rule applies to you. You break it, and life breaks you.

Because I started investing in wiser relationships, I am now an absurdly wealthy woman—if blessings, fulfillment & joy are measured as wealth.

Lupescu has been a wealthy woman for years, with money safely invested in American banks. Had she been out for money she could have got out long ago. Almost anywhere her life would have been safer than in Bucharest. No matter what her sentiments for Carol in the beginning of their relations, she seemed to have become entirely devoted to him in the course of the years.