Wolfe Tone Quotes

Wolf," said Ran, enunciating it very carefully. "What an unusual name. Did your parents give it to you?" "Does it matter?" said Wolf, tossing away his bone. "I'm only making conversation." "I'd prefer silence," Wolf said, a growl in his tone.

What,” Scarlet breathed, clutching the bouquet, “is this?” Wolf smiled around his canine teeth. “You are the most beautiful sight I have ever laid eyes on.” Scarlet cocked her head. “And you look like you’re about to get married.” There was blatant amusement in her tone.

A man is unlikely to be brought within earshot of women as they judge men's appearance, height, muscle tone, sexual technique, penis size, personal grooming, or taste in clothes--all of which we do. The fact is that women are able to view men just as men view women, as objects for sexual and aesthetic evaluation; we too are effortlessly able to choose the male "ideal" from a lineup and if we could have male beauty as well as everything else, most of us would not say no. But so what? Given all that, women make the choice, by and large, to take men as human beings first.

Get the intel, and then come back to Reno so we can cover you.” He paused, his tone softening. “Getting involved in their Pack won’t make you a hero, Luke, it’ll make you a casualty.

Grace: Outside, deep in the woods, I heard a long keening wail, and then another, as the wolves began to howl. More voices pitched in, some low and mournful, others high and short, an eerie and beautiful chorus. I knew my wolf's howl; his rich tone sang out above others as if begging me to hear it. My heart ached inside me, torn between wanting them to stop and wishing they would go on for ever. I imagined myself there among them in the golden woods, watching them tilt their heads back and howl underneath a sky of endless stars. I blinked a tear away, feeling foolish and miserable, but I didn't go to sleep until every wolf had fallen silent.

Costin regained his serious tone but his eyes softened. "I won't force you into anything Sally. I know this is all different to you. I've known all my life that I had one perfect mate out there for me. And when I look at you, I'm in awe of what I've been given." Sally blushed as he paused. "I won't leave you unprotected, and allowing other males around you is something that neither I, nor my wolf, will be able to handle. Besides," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "how could you not want to be around all this?" Sally let out a snort. "You've been around Jen way too much." "I don't know, she's quite educational." "Yeah, I don’t think I really want you to be educated by her.

If a man spoke to you in that tone, you'd invite him to step outside and ask someone to hold your coat." 378

Go on,” he said in a low tone that was a dare. “Keep on poking the hungry wolf, see how naked it gets you.

So what’s going on?” Livy asked after spitting out a bit more blood. “Got a job for you.” “Will I be whoring?” “Not this time. I’m sorry.” “You know how I love to whore,” Livy stated with that flat tone that freaked people out, because no one ever knew whether she was joking or not.

Jen snorted a laugh as she spoke out loud. "Gee thanks, so kind of you to chalk it up to me just being a dumb ass." Decebel chuckled and his eyes had begun to get lighter. "You will stop undressing in front of other people." Jen put a hand on her hip as she tipped her head to the side. She narrowed her eyes at her mate and tapped her lip with a finger. "Now, I'm going to need you clarify that." When Decebel didn't respond, but continued to stare at her, Jen rolled her eyes. "Clarify, elucidate, enlighten. Do. You. Understand. The. Words. That. Are…," Jen emphasized each word. "Jennifer," Decebel growled. "Comingoutofmymouth," Jen finished quickly making Sally giggle. "Only undress in our bedroom." "Nope, na-ah. There's waaaay too many loop holes in that little decree. Seriously Dec, you can do better than that," Jen told him with a single eyebrow raised. Decebel growled at the challenge in her words and the tone of her voice. Damn, when am I going to learn not to poke the angry wolf. The thought ran through her mind before she could censor it from a now wickedly smiling Alpha.

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.

Then he put that one down behind a framed sepia-tone picture of a baseball player named Cecil Travis and picked up another one and tilted it back to his lips.

Wolf smiled around his canine teeth. “You are the most beautiful sight I have ever laid eyes on.” Scarlet cocked her head. “And you look like you’re about to get married.” There was blatant amusement in her tone. Wolf

I got a demerit, professor." There was a kind of naughty amusement in her eyes that I found myself really liking. I smiled slowly. "Why did you do, Miss Dearly?" "She henpecked Elpinoy in a most spectacular fashion," Renfield offered. "I think at one point she was actually hanging on his back." Nora made a sound of annoyance. "Alas, I was looking at a computer screen with Dr. Samedi at the time, and thus I'm afraid that neither of us can vouch for this with certainty." The laughter bubbled out of me before I could hold it back. "Were you?" I asked her. "Define 'hanging.'" "Bra,." Elpinoy appeared in one of the lab doorways. He gestured to the exterior doors. "Take her out. Now. Never in my life have I encountered such a little-" "Lady?" I asked, trying to keep a straight face. "Out." "'Phone call,'" Nora said, affecting his tone of voice and looking right at him. "'Let-ter.'" "Not until Wolfe orders it!" Elpinoy marched into his lab again and slammed the door behind him. Nora stood up, her skirt bouncing a bit atop its puffy petticoat. "That man is an infuriating ponce." "And you're an excellent judge of character.

We talk of strong personalities, and they are strong, until the not-every-day when we see them as we might see one woman alone in a desert, and know that all the strength we thought we knew was only courage, only her lone song echoing among the stones; and then at last when we have understood this and made up our minds to hear the song and admire its courage and its sweetness, we wait for the next note and it does not come. The last word, with its pure tone, echoes and fades and is gone, and we realize—only then—that we do not know what it was, that we have been too intent on the melody to hear even one word. We go then to find the singer, thinking she will be standing where we last saw her. There are only bones and sand and a few faded rags.

Never," enjoins a women's magazine, "mention the size of his [penis] in public...and never, ever let him know that anyone else knows or you may find it shrivels up and disappears, serving you right." That quotation acknowledges that critical sexual comparison is a direct anaphrodisiac when applied to men; either we do not yet recognize that it has exactly the same effect on women, or we do not care, or we understand on some level that right now that effect is desirable and appropriate. A man is unlikely to be brought within earshot of women as they judge men's appearance, height, muscle tone, sexual technique, penis size, personal grooming, or taste in clothes--all of which we do. The fact is that women are able to view men just as men view women, as objects for sexual and aesthetic evaluation; we too are effortlessly able to choose the male "ideal" from a lineup and if we could have male beauty as well as everything else, most of us would not say no. But so what? Given all that, women make the choice, by and large, to take men as human beings first.

Kissing is so amazing,” she admitted, settling into his arms again. “I think I could get addicted to it quite easily.” “I am already addicted to kissing you,” he said, his tone low. “So let’s clarify, just in case we run into one of those not so nice things about my character. Kissing me is amazing. It would be very deadly for anyone else.

Would you give me anything I asked?” in a tone laced with power. White lines bracketed his lips. “I’ll be no one’s slave.

You cannot escape that you are a woman,” she began. “I wish I could,” Firekeeper muttered, but Elise continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Since you cannot, you cannot escape the expectations that our society and our class places upon women.” “Why?” Firekeeper said querulously. “...Consider,” she offered, “what you told me about learning to see at night so that you could hunt with the wolves. Learning to wear a gown, to walk gracefully, to eat politely…” “I do that!” “You’re learning,” Elise admitted, “but don’t change the subject. All of these are ways of learning to see in the dark.” “Maybe,” Firekeeper said, her tone unconvinced. “Can you climb a tree?” “Yes.” “Swim?” “Yes!” This second affirmative was almost indignant. “And these skills let you go places that you could not go without them.” Stubborn silence. Elise pressed her point. “Why do you like knowing how to shoot a bow?” “It lets me kill farther,” came the answer, almost in a growl. “And using a sword does the same?” “Yes.” “Let me tell you, Firekeeper, knowing a woman’s arts can keep you alive, let you invade private sanctums, even help you to subdue your enemies. If you don’t know those arts, others who do will always have an advantage over you.” “All this from wearing a gown that tangles your feet?

The Wolf And The Lamb   WOLF, meeting with a Lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the Lamb the Wolf's right to eat him. He thus addressed him: "Sirrah, last year you grossly insulted me." "Indeed," bleated the Lamb in a mournful tone of voice, "I was not then born." Then said the Wolf, "You feed in my pasture." "No, good sir," replied the Lamb, "I have not yet tasted grass." Again said the Wolf, "You drink of my well." "No," exclaimed the Lamb, "I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother's milk is both food and drink to me." Upon which the Wolf seized him and ate him up, saying, "Well! I won't remain supperless, even though you refute every one of my imputations." The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.

Our independence must be had at all hazards. If the men of property will not support us, they must fall; we can support ourselves by the aid of that numerous and respectable class of the community, the men of no property.

Cinder." Kai pulled one leg onto the bank, turning his body so they were facing each other. He took her hands between his and her heart began to drum unexpectedly. Not because of his touch, and not even because of his low, serious tone, but because it occurred to Cinder all at once that Kai was nervous. Kai was never nervous. "I asked you once," he said, running his thumbs over her knuckles, "if you thought you would ever be willing to wear a crown again. Not as the queen of Luna, but ... as my empress. And you said that you would consider it, someday." She swallowed a breath of cool night air. "And ... this is that day?" His lips twitched, but didn't quite become a smile. "I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I want to marry you, and, yes, I want you to be my empress." Cinder gaped at him for a long moment before she whispered, "That's a lot of wanting." "You have no idea." She lowered her lashes. "I might have some idea." Kai released one of her hands and she looked up again to see him reaching into his pocket - the same that had held Wolf's and Scarlet's wedding rings before. His fist was closed when he pulled it out and Kai held it toward her, released a slow breath, and opened his fingers to reveal a stunning ring with a large ruby ringed in diamonds. It didn't take long for her retina scanner to measure the ring, and within seconds it was filling her in on far more information than she needed - inane worlds like carats and clarity scrolled past her vision. But it was the ring's history that snagged her attention. It had been his mother's engagement ring once, and his grandmother's before that. Kai took her hand and slipped the ring onto her finger. Metal clinked against metal, and the priceless gem looked as ridiculous against her cyborg plating as the simple gold band had looked on Wolf's enormous, deformed, slightly hairy hand. Cinder pressed her lips together and swallowed, hard, before daring to meet Kai's gaze again. "Cinder," he said, "will you marry me?" Absurd, she thought. The emperor of the Eastern Commonwealth was proposing to her. It was uncanny. It was hysterical. But it was Kai, and somehow, that also made it exactly right. "Yes," she whispered. "I will marry you." Those simple words hung between them for a breath, and then she grinned and kissed him, amazed that her declaration didn't bring the surge of anxiety she would have expected years ago. He drew her into his arms, laughing between kisses, and she suddenly started to laugh too. She felt strangely delirious. They had stood against all adversity to be together, and now they would forge their own path to love. She would be Kai's wife. She would be the Commonwealth's empress. And she had every intention of being blissfully happy for ever, ever after.

And then again, maybe it was some weird noise in my brother’s head, some little digital murmur he never told anyone about. I’ve heard about that – how you wake up one day and there’s like this permanent dial tone droning somewhere behind the meat in your head, a little Dustbuster trapped where the brain saves you from going crazy. After a while you wind up ending it all just to make things quiet again.

She loved the way the wind whipped their kilts about. She caught a gorgeous shot of Grant's very toned, hot ass. That would teach him to go without any briefs on a windy day! Maybe he thought she would be so shocked to see him naked beneath the kilt that she'd run off. Not her.

What is it that a young man wants? Where is the central source of that wild fury that boils up in him, that goads and drives and lashes him, that explodes his energies and strews his purpose to the wind of a thousand instant and chaotic impulses? The older and assured people of the world, who have learned to work without waste and error, think they know the reason for the chaos and confusion of a young man’s life. They have learned the thing at hand, and learned to follow their single way through all the million shifting hues and tones and cadences of living, to thread neatly with unperturbed heart their single thread through that huge labyrinth of shifting forms and intersecting energies that make up life—and they say, therefore, that the reason for a young man’s confusion, lack of purpose, and erratic living is because he has not “found himself.

It is my sword Rhindon,” he said; “with it I killed the Wolf.” There was a new tone in his voice, and the others all felt that he was really Peter the High King again.

If anyone fucks with you, I need to know. Promise me you’ll tell me.” His tone brooked no argument, but that wasn’t anything new for Sebastian. He spoke in absolutes, as if his word was law.

Some of us feel as if we’re outsiders. People occasionally talk about us in hushed tones, whispering that we’re a bit of a lone wolf, or at times a loose cannon. They don’t want to say it to our faces because every now and again we can be a little bit unpredictable. But they look at us with a strange curiosity, because in comparison – although they’re often very successful at ‘fitting in’ – they lead lives that are drab, dreary and monotonous. They’re not unruly like the Carefree Scamps. We have a divine spark of unruliness within us. And it’s that unruliness which has kept us young.

It was as if the press in America, for all its vaunted independence, were a great colonial animal, an animal made up of countless clustered organisms responding to a central nervous system. In the late 1950's (as in the late 1970's) the animal seemed determined that in all matters of national importance the proper emotion, the seemly sentiment, the fitting moral tone, should be established and should prevail; and all information that muddied the tone and weakened the feeling should simply be thrown down the memory hole. In a later period this impulse of the animal would take the form of blazing indignation about corruption, abuses of power, and even minor ethical lapses, among public officials; here, in April of 1959, it took the form of a blazing patriotic passion for the seven test pilots who had volunteered to go into space. In either case, the animal's fundamental concern remained the same: the public, the populace, the citizenry, must be provided with the correct feelings! One might regard this animal as the consummate hypocritical Victorian gent. Sentiments that one scarcely gives a second thought to in one's private life are nevertheless insisted upon in all public utterances. (And this grave gent lives on in excellent health.)

Samuel had raised his eyebrows and said, “Do you really want us to kill each other? Adam is the Alpha—and I’m a stronger dominant than he is. Now we’ve both lived long enough to control ourselves up to a point. But, if we’re living together, sooner or later, we’d be at each other’s throat.” “Adam’s house is only a hundred yards from mine,” I told him dryly. Samuel would have been right about any other wolf, but Samuel made his own rules. If he wanted to live in peace with Adam, he could manage it. “Please.” His tone was as far from pleading as it was possible to get. “No,” I told him. There was another, longer pause. “So how are you going to explain to your neighbors that there is a strange man sleeping on your front porch?” He’d have done it, too—so I let him move in.

Didn't you get the money for the taxes? Don't tell me the wolf is still at the door of Tara." There was a different tone in his voice. She looked up to meet his dark eyes and caught an expression which startled and puzzled her at first, and then made her suddenly smile, a sweet and charming smile which was seldom on her face these days. What a perverse wretch he was, but how nice he could be at times! She knew now that the real reason for his call was not to tease her but to make sure she had gotten the money for which she had been so desperate. She knew now that he had hurried to her as soon as he was released, without the slightest appearance of hurry, to lend her the money if she still needed it. And yet he would torment and insult her and deny that such was his intent, should she accuse him. He was quite beyond all comprehension. Did he really care about her, more than he was willing to admit? Or did he have some other motive? Probably the latter, she thought. But who could tell? He did such strange things sometimes. "No," she said, "the wolf isn't at the door any longer. I--I got the money." "But not without a struggle, I'll warrant. Did you manage to restrain yourself until you got the wedding ring on your finger?" She tried not to smile at his accurate summing up of her conduct but she could not help dimpling.

He did not relish the topic; he sensed in Jane Rochford’s tone the peculiar cruelty of women. They fight with the poor weapons God has bestowed – spite, guile, skill in deceit – and it is likely that in conversations between themselves they trespass in places where a man would never trust his footing.

No one but me will touch you.” His tone was even but implacable. She cocked an impervious brow at him. “Oh? And why, pray tell, is that?” “For the same reason I asked you to be safe for me. You’re my mate, Makenna.” Her mind went blank for a moment. He was kidding, right? He had to be. Only…he didn’t look like he was. She cleared her suddenly dry throat. “Why would you think that?” “I don’t think it, I know it. The facts are there.” “What facts?” “Since day one, all I’ve thought about is being balls deep in you. Your scent drives me insane. My wolf hates being apart from you. You’re an outsider, a loner, but I’d fucking kill to protect you. And I’d kill to possess you.

Actual class struggles apart, one of the aesthetic ways you could prove that there was a class system in America was by cogitating on the word, or acronym, 'WASP.' First minted by E. Digby Baltzell in his book The Protestant Establishment , the term stood for 'White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.' Except that, as I never grew tired of pointing out, the 'W' was something of a redundancy (there being by definition no BASPs or JASPs for anyone to be confused with, or confused about). 'ASP,' on the other hand, lacked some of the all-important tone. There being so relatively few Anglo-Saxon Catholics in the United States, the 'S' [sic] was arguably surplus to requirements as well. But then the acronym AS would scarcely do, either. And it would raise an additional difficulty. If 'Anglo-Saxon' descent was the qualifying thing, which surely it was, then why were George Wallace and Jerry Falwell not WASPs? After all, they were not merely white and Anglo-Saxon and Protestant, but very emphatic about all three things. Whereas a man like William F. Buckley, say, despite being a white Irish Catholic, radiated the very sort of demeanor for which the word WASP had been coined to begin with. So, for the matter of that, did the dapper gentleman from Richmond, Virginia, Tom Wolfe. Could it be, then, that WASP was really a term of class rather than ethnicity? Q.E.D.

I have been lately introduced to the famous Thomas Paine, and like him very well. He is vain beyond all belief, but he has reason to be vain, and for my part I forgive him. He has done wonders for the cause of liberty, both in America and Europe, and I believe him to be conscientiously an honest man. He converses extremely well; and I find him wittier in discourse than in his writings, where his humour is clumsy enough.

Wolfe scowled at her. I could see he was torn with conflicting emotions. A female in his kitchen was an outrage. A woman criticizing his or Fritz’s cooking was an insult. But corned beef hash was one of life’s toughest problems, never yet solved by anyone. To tone down the corned flavor and yet preserve its unique quality, to remove the curse of its dryness without making it greasy—the theories and experiments had gone on for years.

I think there’s something about certain people’s chosen ‘lifestyle’ which ages them. I can’t explain it any other way. Leaving school, building a career, getting old before their time as they take on more and more stress lacks that one essential element that we had oodles of as youngsters, and that’s fun. We had lively, buoyant and animated fun. We were carefree at an age when you’re supposed to be carefree. We were breezy, jaunty and happy-go-lucky. The flip side of this is that at times it may make some of us feel as if we’re outsiders. People occasionally talk about us in hushed tones, whispering that we’re a bit of a lone wolf, or at times a loose cannon. They don’t want to say it to our faces because every now and again we can be a little bit unpredictable. But they look at us with a strange curiosity, because in comparison – although they’re often very successful at ‘fitting in’ – they lead lives that are drab, dreary and monotonous. They’re not unruly like the Carefree Scamps. We have a divine spark of unruliness within us. And it’s that unruliness which has kept us young.

Since men who become embittered never win respect or admiration, those who sought fame did not rail at the undoubted hardship of their lives and the inevitability of death. Rather, they endured it or, even better, laughed at it. This accounts for the ironic tone in the fabric of the myths and explains, for example, the reaction of the gods when Tyr sacrificed his hand (Myth 7) in the interests of binding the wolf Fenrir. Men and women expected their share of trouble and the best of them attempted to use it, to rise above it and carve out a name for themselves through bravery and loyalty and generosity.

I jerked my head up, my tie with Jack severed. 7 “You’re early,” I told the Magician as Matthew and I climbed down. “Wanted to avoid the midnight-hour traffic.” When Cyclops padded over hesitantly, Finn grumbled, “Free fort, sit where you want!” He situated his crutch over his lap. “So an Empress, a horse, and a wolf walk into a fort. . . .” “If this is a dirty joke, I’ll pass.” I’d missed the Magician’s humor. Tilting my head at him, I said, “You don’t look so good, Finn.” “I feel like a bucket of fuck, but I’ll be ready,” he assured me. “Right, Matto?” “Ready Magician!” “H to the Azey. That army blows Baggers.” “Somehow she dragged me back to the fort.” “Good thing I’m dying young,” Finn continued in a nonchalant tone, “or I’d be shit out of luck with this bum leg.” “Dying young?” He wasn’t kidding. “Made peace with it.” He shrugged. “Kind of think we all should.” Have you guys gotten snow here yet?” I thought I’d spied a single flake the night I’d left Aric. “Not looking forward to that. SoCal surfer boy here, remember? Just think: if the snow comes down like the rain has . . .” “Snowmageddon!” Matthew cried, cracking both of them up. “Yeah, Matto, that groundhog came out to check for nuclear winter. But then a Bagger ate him!

The woods grew increasingly dense as Wolf walked farther from the castle. A hoot from an owl just overhead made Aralorn-the-mouse cringe tighter against his neck. “Lots of nasties in these woods,” she said in a mouselike voice devoid of all but a hint of humor. “And I,” announced Wolf in a grim voice that was designed to let Aralorn know that it was time to be serious, “am the nastiest of all.” “Are you really?” asked Aralorn in an interested sort of tone. “Oh, I just adore nasties.” Wolf stopped and looked at the mouse sitting innocently on his shoulder. Most people cowered under that look. Aralorn began, industriously, to clean her whiskers. When Wolf started to walk again, though, she said in a stage whisper, “I really do, you know.

Correct me if I’m wrong. I’d love to be wrong. Ages ago, Loki had an affair with a giantess. They had three monstrous kids.’ ‘I was not one of them,’ Sam muttered. ‘I’ve heard all the jokes.’ Hearthstone winced, like he’d been wondering about that. ‘One,’ I said, ‘was a huge snake.’ ‘Jormungand,’ Sam said. ‘The World Serpent, which Odin threw into the sea.’ ‘The second was Hel,’ I continued. ‘She became, like, the goddess of the dishonourable dead.’ ‘And the third,’ Blitzen said, ‘was Fenris Wolf.’ His tone was bitter, full of pain. ‘Blitz,’ I said, ‘you sound like you know him.’ ‘Every dwarf knows of Fenris. That was the first time the Aesir came to us for help. Fenris grew so savage he would’ve devoured the gods. They tried to tie him up, but he broke every chain.’ ‘I remember,’ I said. ‘Finally the dwarves made a rope strong enough to hold him.’ ‘Ever since,’ Blitzen said, ‘the children of Fenris have been enemies of the dwarves.’ He looked up, his dark shades reflecting my face. ‘You’re not the only one who’s lost family to wolves, kid.’ I had a strange urge to hug him.

33 · Waiting for Glory Then, you let it cook slowly—oh, very slowly, for several hours—it’s a very delicate operation—you’ve got to keep your eye on what you’re doing all the time—so few of these women you meet nowadays will take the trouble. . . . But it’s got to be done very slowly and carefully until the flavor of the beef has got into all the vegetables and the flavor of the vegetables has got into the beef.” She went on in a very earnest tone, a lowered voice: “It’s like a masterpiece—a symposium, you know—all the parts so delicately blended that each is all and all is each.” He, tenderly, in a gently tranced tone: “The vegetables, you said?” 33. В очакване на славата стр. 556 И е важно да се готви бавно — много бавно — поне няколко часа — това е тънка работа — през цялото време трябва да внимаваш какво става — много малко днешни жени ще си направят този труд... Но трябва много бавно да се готви, и много внимателно, така че ароматът на говеждото да влезе във всички зеленчуци, а месото да поеме техния мирис. (Тя продължи с много сериозен тон и леко сниши глас.) Това е нещо като шедьовър — нещо като симпозиум — всичко фино да смеси, че просто да стане едно. В едното да е всичко и всичко да е в едно. Той (нежно и малко екзалтирано): Зеленчуците казваш, а?

Miss Wigglesworth gave him an assessing look out of her remarkable blue eyes. “You’re a libertine? How very unique.” She gave a small fake yawn. She was, in that heartbeat, so perfect and so pure and so very dangerous indeed that all he could do was frighten her away. “Have you been listening at keyholes, Lazuli? I assure you, they have always been willing, even when I ask that they pretend otherwise.” She blushed deep pink at that – an appealing thing, the blood high under her cheeks, warm and subtle and alive. He wanted to delve into her, with teeth and body until she was ravaged and supine and wrecked and bleeding and his. She did not, as he had expected, break away from him mid-step. The blush was there, to be sure, but she was made of sterner stuff. Any true innocent would be repulsed by the intent in his tone. A woman without experience would fear the implication of his preferences – the certain acknowledgment that there was wolf, nothing but wolf, underneath all his icy indifference. Faith was intrigued. She tilted her head and looked hard at him, her lovely eyes flinty. “So, you’re just a beast who enjoys the chase, nothing else?” “Exactly so.” She threw it all at him. Like a piece of warm fresh meat, cut and dripping temptation, enough to make him salivate, to bait her trap. “You can’t catch me.” The waltz ended.

LXXII In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee, And as the flames along their faces gleam’d, Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, The long wild locks that to their girdles stream’d, While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half scream’d: Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy ’larum afar Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war; All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, To his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: But those scarves of blood-red shall be redder, before The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o’er. Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, And track to his covert the captive on shore. I ask not the pleasure that riches supply, My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy; Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, And many a maid from her mother shall tear. I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe; Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre, And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. Remember the moment when Previsa fell, The shrieks of the conquer’d, the conquerors’ yell; The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, The wealthy we slaughter’d, the lovely we spared. I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; He neither must know who would serve the Vizier: Since the days of our prophet, the Crescent ne’er saw A chief ever glorious like Ali Pasha. Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, Let the yellow-haired Giaours view his horsetail with dread; When his Delhis come dashing in blood o’er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! Selictar, unsheath then our chief’s scimitar: Tambourgi! thy ’larum gives promise of war; Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, Shall view us as victors, or view us no more!

On these lands, in both the occupied places and those left to grow wild, alongside the community and the dwindling wildlife, there lived another creature. At night, he roamed the roads that connected Arcand to the larger town across the Bay where Native people were still unwelcome two centuries on. His name was spoken in the low tones saved for swear words and prayer. He was the threat from a hundred stories told by those old enough to remember the tales. Broke Lent? The rogarou will come for you. Slept with a married woman? Rogarou will find you. Talked back to your mom in the heat of the moment? Don't walk home. Rogarou will snatch you up. Hit a woman under any circumstance? Rogarou will call you family, soon. Shot too many deer, so your freezer is overflowing but the herd thin? If I were you, I'd stay indoors at night. Rogarou knows by now. He was a dog, a man, a wolf. He was clothed, he was naked in his fur, he wore moccasins to jig. He was whatever made you shiver but he was always there, standing by the road, whistling to the stars so that they pulsed bright in the navy sky, as close and as distant as ancestors. For girls, he was the creature who kept you off the road or made you walk in packs. The old women never said, "Don't go into town, it is not safe for us there. We go missing. We are hurt." Instead, they leaned in and whispered a warning: "I wouldn't go out on the road tonight. Someone saw the rogarou just this Wednesday, leaning against the stop sign, sharpening his claws with the jawbone of a child." For boys, he was the worst thing you could ever be. "You remember to ask first and follow her lead. You don't want to turn into Rogarou. You'll wake up with blood in your teeth, not knowing and no way to know what you've done." Long after that bone salt, carried all the way from the Red River, was ground to dust, after the words it was laid down with were not even a whisper and the dialect they were spoken in was rubbed from the original language into common French, the stories of the rogarou kept the community in its circle, behind the line. When the people forgot what they had asked for in the beginning - a place to live, and for the community to grow in a good way - he remembered, and he returned on padded feet, light as stardust on the newly paved road. And that rogarou, heart full of his own stories but his belly empty, he came home not just to haunt. He also came to hunt.

Get dressed. We’re going hunting,” he says randomly. In my half-woke state, I feel like I’ve missed something crucial, because I don’t understand how those words are supposed to make sense. “I’m sorry, but what?” I ask, sipping the coffee like the lack of caffeine is the reason I heard him wrong. “We’re going hunting. Emit has some rogue, unregistered wolves who’ve just done something heinous and stupid, and we’re taking you with us, apparently.” “I don’t want to hunt wolves,” I point out, taking a step back, since he’s acting very un-Vance-like. “I don’t want you to hunt wolves, but apparently you’re going with us, or you’re going with him,” he says bitterly, glancing over his shoulder to where there’s a large SUV. Emit’s behind the wheel, smirking like he’s proud of all this. “Yeah, no. Thanks for the offer,” I say as I shut the door…and lock it. I sip my coffee again, as Lemon drinks hers in the kitchen. Her phone rings, and she stands and answers it, while I go to the fridge in search of something to eat. I hear the door unlocking, and look over my shoulder, as Lemon gives me a very unapologetic grin. “Sorry,” she says, confusing me. “But he’s still my alpha.” Emit walks in, filling up my doorway, before he grins over at me in a way that’s sort of…scary. “It’s not really optional,” he says before he stalks to me so fast I don’t have time to react, and I’m unceremoniously slung over his shoulder. My breath comes out in a surprised rush, and I bounce against him as my mind comes to terms with why the world has tipped upside down. Ingrid comes down the stairs with a small bag, giving me a shitty excuse for a contrite smile. “I’ll remember this,” I tell the traitorous omegas dryly, as they give me a little wave and send me on my way like this is a planned vacation. I don’t really put up a fight. I’ve never seen Emit actually determined to do anything, but clearly I’m outnumbered and out wolfed on this one... I allow a small smile as I’m dropped to my feet, and then wipe the smile away because I’m supposed to be annoyed... I climb in as my backpack and small duffel finish flopping to a stop, and close my robe a little more before digging for my boots. “We’ve got everything here under control! Don’t worry about deliveries or the store,” Leiza calls very excitedly, bouncing on her feet. “This is a hunting trip to kill things, right?” I ask Vance directly, though my eyes are on the very happy omegas, who are animatedly waving from the porch now. “Yes,” he states in a tone that assures me he’s not one bit happy I’m here. “Why are they treating it like I’m going on spring break?” I ask, genuinely concerned about their level of enthusiasm. I thought they were a little saner than this. Emit snorts, but clears his expression quickly. “Do I want to know what spring break is a euphemism for?” Vance asks Emit. “You’re really that old?” I groan. “Do you know how long a century is?” Vance asks me dryly. “I averaged a C on vocab tests, so yeah,” I retort, matching his condescension. Emit releases a rumble of laughter, as his body shakes with the force. Then he pulls out and begins to drive us off on our hunt. I’m so not adjusting this fast, but it seems I have no choice in the matter. It’s like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining size and momentum. Either I’ll boulder through anything when I reach the bottom, or I’ll simply go splat into a mountainside. “Do you know how quickly the vernacular shifts and accents devolve, evolve, or simply cease to exist?” Vance asks me. Now I feel a little talked down to. “No.” “I swear he used to be fun,” Emit tells me, smiling at me through the rearview

Luna left, too, with a cheery, “Thanks for the morning entertainment. That provided a better jolt than a cup of espresso.” Then it was just Arabella, her brother, and the really, really big man, who had just turned his gaze on her. Given his threats and violent solution, Arabella should have been quaking. At the very least staring at her toes lest she incur his wrath. But the gentlest blue eyes caught hers, and his tone was soft and soothing when he addressed her. “You must be Arabella. I’m Leo, the pride’s omega.” “More like enforcer,” Jeoff muttered, still rubbing his head. “If you behave, then I don’t have to resort to my methods.” “He started it,” Jeoff accused, pointing at finger at Hayder, who emerged from the bedroom clad in low-hipped jeans that hugged his corded thighs and a soft T-shirt that clung to his chest. “Hey, it’s not my fault you jumped to the wrong conclusion when I answered the door.” “What else was I to think? You’re in my sister’s condo wearing only a rag.” “Protecting her.” “The same way you protected her last night when you took her out and flaunted her?” “I took her to dinner.” “What the hell do you mean you took her out to dinner? You put my baby sister in danger.” “She wasn’t in danger.” “They snatched her off the street!” “And I got her back.” The men glared at each, toe-to-toe, bodies bristling. Leo, who’d seated himself on a stool by the kitchen island, cleared his throat. “Don’t make me get off this stool.” The tension remained, but the impending violence moved down a few notches. Seeming satisfied, Leo turned to her. “Coffee?” He addressed that to Arabella, holding out a cup he’d brewed from the machine on the counter. With a wary look at both Hayder and her brother, she went toward him but then almost scalded herself when Hayder barked, “Baby, where are your pants?” Oh yeah. She peeked down at her bare legs. To his credit, Leo didn’t, but he did smile. “How about I add some sugar and milk to this while you find some pants? You look like you need something sweet.” She couldn’t help but return his smile. “Yes, please.” Still ignoring the other two men, she stepped past them to the bedroom, where she scrounged in a drawer for pants. As she dressed, she listened to the arguing. “She’s leaving with me.” Her brother hadn’t relented. Neither did Hayder. “Wrong. Arabella isn’t going anywhere.” Ouch. She knew her brother wouldn’t like that. She was right. “Excuse me? You don’t get a say. She’s my sister, my responsibility. I’m taking her.” Arabella stepped back into the living room. “What of the danger though, Jeoff? The pack is in town, and they’re looking for me.” “We’ll figure something out.” “We already have. She’ll stay here with me where she’s safe.” Hayder crossed his arms over his impressive chest, looking much too determined— and sexy. A certain brother wasn’t impressed. “As safe as she was last night?” Hayder rolled his eyes. “Oh please. What part of ‘we had the situation under control’ can you not grasp? Leo, tell the wolf that Arabella was never in any danger.” “I don’t lie to my friends,” Leo said as he re-handed Arabella her coffee. She took a sip of the hot brew and sighed as she listened to the arguing. When Leo patted the stool beside him, she hopped on. For such a big man, he offered a strangely calming effect. On her at least. Hayder and Jeoff, on the other hand, just couldn’t stem their tirade. “I was wrong to stick her here. So you can forget I asked.” “Too late. She’s part of the pride now.” “She’s a wolf, or have you forgotten? She belongs with her own kind.” Jeoff crooked his finger at her and inclined his head to the door. Arabella didn’t move, more because Hayder’s next words froze her. “She belongs with me. Arabella is my mate.

The Wolf And The Lamb WOLF, meeting with a Lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the Lamb the Wolf's right to eat him. He thus addressed him: "Sirrah, last year you grossly insulted me." "Indeed," bleated the Lamb in a mournful tone of voice, "I was not then born." Then said the Wolf, "You feed in my pasture." "No, good sir," replied the Lamb, "I have not yet tasted grass." Again said the Wolf, "You drink of my well." "No," exclaimed the Lamb, "I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother's milk is both food and drink to me." Upon which the Wolf seized him and ate him up, saying, "Well! I won't remain supperless, even though you refute every one of my imputations." The tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.

Jonathon, who has the Kung Chow act—always good to have another of the company about—” “Kung Chow?” Wolf said in dismay. “I am not going to substitute for one of his wretched doves again! Really, Nigel, this is going too far—” “No one is asking you to substitute for a dove, Wolf,” Nigel said, pacing faster. “We should make this a real Arabian Nights story. Shipwreck our girl in Arabia, have her taken to a harem, that way we can bring in all the variety acts as things to entertain the sultan! And have an excuse to put her in as little as we can convince her to wear. And there are plenty of girls in our chorus who wouldn’t blanch at doing a harem dance. Have her escape with the Court Magician’s help—” “Oh good lord, why don’t you just steal the plot and music from my Abduction from the Seraglio and have done with it?” Wolf said in disgust. “Why don’t I—Wolf! That’s brilliant!” Nigel turned towards the parrot and conductor with a smile lighting up his face. “Perfect! You adapt the music for our show, we can tout it as ‘Based on Abduction from the Seraglio by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.’ Make the print just large enough that the punters won’t notice and the high-minded will. The punters will get their nautch dances, and the high-toned will tell each other how fine it is to listen to classical music while they gawk at the nautch dances from behind their pince-nezes. It’s brilliant! I love you!” As Wolf growled in startlement, Nigel swooped him up, kissed his beak, and put him back down on his stand again. “Brilliant! Brilliant! I’m going to go look up the libretto of this opera of yours and see what I can keep out of it. Arthur, help Wolf with some catchy lyrics. We’ll need at least one love song, of course, and one song about being homesick. And one from the sultan about making the beauty his slave for all time—” Nigel strode off, heading for the music library. Behind him, Wolf sighed. “Well,” the parrot said in resignation. “At least I won’t have to make up any little tinkly tunes this time.” 5 NINETTE sat up in the bed, curled her arms around her knees, and listened in astonishment to the cat.

This idea of two distinct varieties of people (which quickly hardened into a Polynesian/Melanesian divide) turns what is, in fact, a spectrum of skin tones and peoples across the Pacific into a more or less binary division between black and white. With this binary came a tangle of other ideas about morality, intelligence, temperament, beauty, social and political complexity, even depth of time. Melanesians were routinely described by Europeans as not just dark-skinned, but “primitive” in their political, economic, and social structures. In eighteenth- and nineteenth-century accounts, they are depicted as small, dark, and mistrustful, the women “ill-favoured” and “ugly,” the men “despotic” and cruel. Banded together in small, autonomous groups, they appeared to Europeans to lack any form of law, government, or organized religion and compared unfavorably with their larger, fairer-skinned, more hierarchical neighbors the Polynesians, differing from them, in one unforgettable formulation, “as the wolf from the dog.” The term “Melanesian” had thus long served in European discourse as a marker for otherness and inferiority, and in the racially charged climate of the early twentieth century, Te Rangi Hiroa could hardly fail to be aware of this. When the anatomist J. H. Scott (the probable author of the Otago Medical School notice offering to buy Māori skeletons) asserted, “We know the Maoris to be . . . the result of the mingling of a Polynesian and a Melanesian strain,” or when Sullivan argued for a “Melanesian element” in his Tongan or Samoan data sets, Te Rangi Hiroa would certainly have recognized the subtext. And in his own early somatological studies, which were written explicitly with the work of these other men in mind, you can see him struggling with the problem.

The head inclines; the cardinal says, in those honeyed tones, famous from here to Vienna, ‘So now, tell me how was Yorkshire.’ ‘Filthy.’ He sits down. ‘Weather. People. Manners. Morals.

Are you suggesting Darcy and I must be penalized for something we neither instigated nor wanted?” Mason asked, leaning forward in his chair. His own power crackled in the air around us, the mantle he held as Alpha teasing my senses as his wolf stirred. He still kept his tone respectful, but there was no denying his frustration and disbelief. “I

Vane strolled in. The smile on his face, curving those fascinating lips, was more than enough to make Patience inwardly swear that she would not, not for anything, give him the pleasure of knowing how flustered she felt. "What's the time?" Nonchalance laced her tones. "Lunchtime," replied the wolf. Feeling very like Red Riding Hood, Patience smothered a feigned yawn, then held up her arms and waved him closer. "You may carry me down then." Vane's smile deepened. With elegant ease, he lifted her into his arms.

Laura's mind was already racing with the creative possibilities presented to her. She whipped out her sketchbook and started to work away with a stump of charcoal, trying to capture the sweep of the hills and the patterns made by the blocks of light and dark. She half closed her eyes, the better to appreciate the variations in tone and depth. She was astonished to find just how brash and vivid and wonderfully discordant colors in nature could be. At this time of year there was no sense that things were attempting to blend or mingle or go unseen. Every tree, bush, and flower seemed to be shouting out its presence, each one louder than the next. On the lower slopes the leaves of the aged oak trees sang out, gleaming in the heat. On every hill bracken screamed in solid swathes of viridian. At Laura's feet the plum purple and dark green leaves of the whinberry bushes competed for attention with their own indigo berries. The kitsch mauve of the heather laughed at all notions of subtlety. She turned to a fresh page and began to make quick notes, ideas for a future palette and thoughts about compositions. She jotted down plans for color mixes and drew the voluptuous curve of the hills and the soft shape of the whinberry leaves.

Are you hurting?” he asked. His words were kind, but his tone was blank, expressionless.

His tone is so flirtatious it makes my stomach flip, and it must have a similar effect on the other women in the room because a lot of wolf-whistling follows.

We’ll never ask that of you, Darcy,” Dane said in a much gentler tone. “A warg is not an undemanding mate. We will want everything you have to give and more, but…” His fingers teased the small hairs at the back of my neck, until I tossed his hand off with a shake of my head, resulting in the others laughing. “In our world, it must be freely given. A warg must earn his mate’s love, devotion and surrender, and he does that by giving her the same.

Or cut my own throat as I had cut the throat of the girl. Wolfe Tone, jailed after the Irish Rebellion of 1798, had sawed through his throat with a penknife. I wondered if I could do the same. Would the hand falter?

EMOTIONS GALORE The three carefree and naïve brothers are heading into a path towards a foest nearby. Walking joyfully at a fast pace while singing, Mark, in front, suddenly notices the figure of what he believes to be a fox in the distance. He continues to walk, but he soon realizes that it is a wolf. So he stops promptly, as well as his two brothers behind him. Then he says quietly to the others with a trembling voice, fear breaking him down: "We should backtrack quietly. I saw a wolf approaching." The wolf having almost caught up, begins to say to them in a soft-fierce tone : "Your Father, the Kig ..." At the same time, the three brothers are surprised and look at each other after having suddenly stopped their mad dash. then the wolf continues to say to them : "ordered me to tell you that ..." EMOTIONS A PROFUSION On sent déjà l'excitation de nos trois frères, Marc, Pierrre et Luc, qui commencent leurs vacances d'été en partant à l'aventure, ne sachant ce que leur réserve l'avenir, mais enthousiastes et prêts à relever les défis de chaque jour. Ces trois camarades insouciants et naïfs se dirigent donc dans un sentier menant à une forêt non loin de leur demeure. Marchant joyeusement et en chantant, à une cadence entraînante, Marc, en tête de file, remarque soudainement la silhouette de ce qu'il croit être un renard au loin. Il continue alors à marcher, mais il se rend bientôt compte que c'est un loup. Alors il s'arrête promptement, ainsi que ses deux frères derrière lui. Il dit alors tout bas aux autres, avec un trémolo dans la voix, la peur l'envahissant : "Nous devrions faire marche arrière tranquillement. Je vois un loup qui s'approche." Le loup les ayant presque rattrapés, commence à leur dire d'un ton mi-doux, mi-féroce : "Votre Père, le Roi ..." Au même moment les trois frères se regardent avec surprise, après avoir brusquement arrêté leur course. Le loup continue ensuite à leur parler : "... m'a ordonné de vous dire que ...

Our independence must be had at all hazards. If the men of property will not support us, they must fall; we can support ourselves by the aid of that numerous and respectable class of the community, the men of no property.

It is a most remarkable disguise,” he said, keeping his tone low and careful. The odd creature opened the notebook, pencil poised to write. “In what way, Your Grace?” Unflappable. Those bright green eyes met his unflinchingly. Audacious. The mouth smiled as if in challenge. Or was it a taunt? Daring. Those brows arched in a challenge. Foolish. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, surprising James. “Why are you dressed as a gentleman?” “Why do you stand so close when you must know it is socially scandalous?” Southby asked, eyes gleaming with decided mystery and cunning. That look of calculation had James staring at Southby intently. “No denial?” Those lips quirked. “Have you considered I might be an extraordinarily attractive gentleman?” “You have a very complicated neckcloth knotted at your throat.

Blogs are usually written in a conversational tone and often employ humor and wit to make the read enjoyable for the visitors.

A blog usually has a chatty tone as it is written using conversational and informal language. Most of the times, a blog consists of information related to a particular niche.

Alpha Raul, if you wouldn't mind keeping your mate under control." "I wouldn't mind," Raul retorts in a dry tone. "If you have a means of doing so, I'm all ears.

Then think about strangling me, if that helps you focus," he says in an infuriatingly patient tone. Actually, it kind of does.

After the crushing of the Wolfe Tone’s United Irishmen Rising of 1798, the British were determined not to have to contend with any further liberation-minded Dublin Parliaments. To this end, William Pitt, the British Prime Minister, engineered an Act of Union for the sole purpose of total political suppression of the Irish. Cornwallis, the Viceroy of Ireland, embarked on a campaign of rank chicanery designed to coerce the Dublin Parliament into dissolving itself after five hundred years. When it was done, the Cross of St. Patrick was added to the British Cross of St. George and the Scottish Cross of St. Andrew, all fixed on a single banner known as the Union Jack to fly over a so-called United Kingdom.

After the crushing of the Wolfe Tone’s United Irishmen Rising of 1798, the British were determined not to have to contend with any further liberation-minded Dublin Parliaments. To this end, William Pitt, the British Prime Minister, engineered an Act of Union for the sole purpose of total political suppression of the Irish. Cornwallis, the Viceroy of Ireland, embarked on a campaign of rank chicanery designed to coerce the Dublin Parliament into dissolving itself after five hundred years. When it was done, the Cross of St. Patrick was added to the British Cross of St. George and the Scottish Cross of St. Andrew, all fixed on a single banner known as the Union Jack to fly over a so-called United Kingdom. For

Professor Hex looked on the city of Amarillo and raised her arms. “In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. And the virgin's name was Mary. And he came to her and said, “Greetings, O favored one, the Lord is with you!” But she was greatly troubled at the saying, and tried to discern what sort of greeting this might be. And the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God.” Professor Hex laughed. “Oh my dear, dear men, you are the new Mary.” As she recited these words, the city lights illuminated her face, revealing a disturbing grin that hinted at mischief and maybe even malevolence. A sinister laugh came from the depths of her pain. “You've been impregnated by the Holy Spirit!” Her words took on a mocking tone, the resonance of her laughter cutting through the night. “You will now know what it is like to be forced to carry a child by God!

Fuck," I grit out, turning my head away from him, even though that just has the result of giving him better access. "Damn it, man, why am I feeling so... submissive?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. "That's the idea," Raul says in a tone that would sound smug, if it wasn't for the hunger laced in it.

Exactly!” you shot back, finishing your last pattern. “The stock really is a screaming buy down here!” Then you pause for a brief instant and switch to your mystery and intrigue tonality, and you say, “Now, Bill, let me ask you another question.” And now you switch to your money-aside tonality. “If I’d been your broker for the last three or four years, making you money on a consistent basis”—and now you switch to your implied obviousness—“then you probably wouldn’t be saying, ‘Let me think about it right now, [your first name].’ You’d be saying, ‘Pick me up a block of at least a few thousand shares.’” And then you switch to the reasonable man tone and you add, “Am I right?

The 1798’ – the Irish revolt of the United Irishmen against English domination, potentially backed by French forces – was led by the Protestant Wolfe Tone.

Wolfe Tone proposed that Anti-Catholicism belonged to ‘the dark ages of superstition’, not ‘the days of illumination, at the close of the eighteenth century’.

So, instead, I matched him. I walked in acting as pissed off and angry as he was. In fact, I acted even angrier. I said, my voice booming, “What the hell is going on, Carter? I know that bastard of a kid is a ball hog! We’ve got to do something about it right now! Should we call the coach and get him thrown off the team?” Then he matched me, just like I knew he would. He became just as angry as he thought I was, and he said, “Yeah, let’s call the coach! Let’s get him thrown off the team! That kid’s a menace!” To which I said, “Yeah, let’s do that, buddy!” And, just like that, I began lowering my voice and taking on a more sympathetic tone. Then I shook my head sadly and said, “I don’t know, buddy. I wonder what causes him to

that doesn’t take away from how profound it was. In fact, not only do those five simple words mark a major turning point in the sale but they also mark the point where you’re going to begin your next pattern. You’re going to say, in a sympathetic tone: “Now, that I can understand. You don’t know me, and I don’t have the luxury of a track record; so let me take a moment to reintroduce myself. “My name is [your first and last name], and I’m a [your title] at [the name of your company], and I’ve been there for [actual number] years, and I pride myself on …” And now you’re going to tell your prospect a little bit about yourself—citing any degrees you have, any licenses you have, any special talents you have, any awards you’ve won, what your goals are at the company, what you stand for as a person in terms of ethics and integrity and customer service, and how you can be an asset to him and his family over the long term.

fighting the British in 1601 in Kinsale with the help of the Spanish; then Wolfe Tone and the French at Bantry Bay in 1798, trying to follow in the footsteps of the sans-culottes who cut the head off their king; then poor Robert Emmet, who led the United Irishmen in 1803. Throughout the centuries the Irish had fought and died for their

There was a summer-long gap between me and all the stuff that was supposed to happen next; I now saw, nested within that gap, possibilities without number. Infinite futures. I am a musician on a stage somewhere, my instrument singing in tones so universal that the masses howl their accord in places near and far. Reseda, New York, Japan; or else I escape through a bedroom window three minutes from now and careen through the streets, crazed, lost, locked inside the person in whose image I have remade myself; or I am no one, driving a delivery van carrying boxes of electronics from nowhere to no place, the road empty before me by day, shared by headless headlights after dark, beams increasing briefly and then gone, beyond, somewhere off in the cross-traffic, catchable in the rearview if I dare. I thrive. I fail to thrive. I fall. I rise. Too many. Too late. Not that, not those, not these: this.

Chance, snuff your powers!” I shouted, muscling a path through the shallow water. “Whisper thinks you’re an enemy!” As if on cue, Whisper growled. Exposed her gleaming white teeth. “Oh crap.” Chance waved his hands, as if trying to persuade the wolf to hear him out. “I’m with you! Promise!” His frame shook, then Chance dropped to a knee, hacking up a lung. “You see?” He wheezed. “No more flare!” Whisper bayed loudly. I was certain she was about to charge. Then Cooper burst from the trees and planted himself between Chance and his mother. My wolfdog growled deep in his throat. Whisper paused. Cocked her head. Then she barked loudly and jabbed her paws. Coop didn’t budge. Barked right back. Both animals fell silent. For a few heartbeats, time itself stopped. Then Whisper sat back on her haunches. Yapped twice. Coop seemed to stand down as well. He trotted forward and licked his mother’s nose. She nuzzled him back. Chance hadn’t moved a millimeter. “What’s happening?” Finally ashore, I trudged over and slapped Chance on the back, nearly causing him to jump from his skin. “Coop just vouched for you.” My tone grew serious. “Don’t make him regret it.” Chance lowered his shaking hands. He nodded to Coop when the wolfdog glanced his way. “No. No, I certainly won’t.

...my father explained to me in a hushed tone that in times of extreme stress or trauma, humans of all ages will resort back to the fetal position, because it is an instinctual way to protect all our vital organs and because it reminds us of the safest place we all began, thee womb.

..my father explained to me in a hushed tone that in times of extreme stress or trauma, humans of all ages will resort back to the fetal position, because it is an instinctual way to protect all our vital organs and because it reminds us of the safest place we all began, the womb.

Why are we sneaking out in the night?” Jack repeated. “I already explained,” Sam snapped. “If you don’t listen—” Taylor jumped in to say, “Because otherwise Astrid would find some way to stop him.” She mimicked Astrid’s voice, injecting it with steel and a tense, condescending tone. “Sam. I am the smartest, hottest girl in the world. So do what I tell you. Good boy. Down, boy. Down!” Sam remained silent, walking steadily just a few feet ahead. Taylor continued, “Oh, Sam, if only you could be as smart plus as totally goody-goody as I am. If only you could realize that you will never be good enough to have me, me, wonderful me, Astrid the Blond Genius.” “Sam, can I shoot her now?” Dekka asked. “Or is it too soon?” “Wait until we’re over the ridge,” Sam said. “It’ll muffle the sound.” “Sorry, Dekka,” Taylor said. “I know you don’t like talking about boy-girl things.” “Taylor,” Sam warned. “Yes, Sam?” “You might want to think about how hard it would be to walk if someone were to turn off gravity under your feet every now and then.” “I wonder who would do that?” Dekka said. Suddenly Taylor fell flat on her face. “You tripped me!” Taylor said, more shocked than angry. “Me?” Dekka spread her hands in a completely unconvincing gesture of innocence. “Hey, I’m all the way over here.” “I’m just saying: you can see where that could make a long walk just a lot longer,” Sam said. “You guys are so not fun,” Taylor grumped. She bounced instantaneously to just behind Sam. She grabbed his butt, he yelled, “Hey!” and she bounced away innocently. “To answer your question, Jack,” Sam said, “we are sneaking out at night so that everyone doesn’t know we’re gone and why. They’ll figure it out soon enough, but Edilio will have to have more of his guys on the streets if I’m not there playing the big, bad wolf. More stress for everyone.” “Oh,” Jack said. “The big, bad wolf,” Taylor said. She laughed. “So, when you play that fantasy in your head is Astrid Little Red Riding Hood or one of the Three Little Pigs?” “Dekka,” Sam said. “Hah! Too slow!

She appeared to be near seventeen years of age, but looked like a vision from the Greek tragedies. With plaited coils of dark luscious hair, lips like the petals of a rose, and large, deep eyes that contained all the delight of her passion. She was the loveliest girl I have ever seen in all my life. Then she spoke. I have never heard such a voice before. It seemed she was instantly Juliet. From deep tones to flute-like music like the lark, she spoke and sang her parts with an excitement that stirred the whole audience. She concluded to thunderous applause and I could barely contain my own appreciation.

She tried to back away as the duke stalked closer, running a bold stare over the length of her. "What is this?" he growled softly at Doyle, nodding at her. She reacted instinctively to his notice, pulling against her captors' hold in panic. She tried to run. They stopped her. "A gift, Your Grace!" Caleb Doyle exclaimed in forced joviality. As the smugglers dragged her over to him, Warrington studied her like a predatory wolf. "A gift?" he echoed in a musing tone. Caleb thrust her toward him with a cheerful grin. "Aye, sir! A token of our regard, to welcome you back to Cornwall after all this time! A fine young bed warmer for a cold winter's night. Right little beauty, ain't she?" He was silent for a long moment, perusing her intently. The he answered barely audibly, his deep voice reverberated like a distant rumble of thunder drawing closer. "Indeed." Caught in his stare, Kate could not even move. She was lucky she remembered to keep breathing.

When, at 11:01, the sound of Wolfe's elevator came, I got the big dictionary in front of me on my desk, opened to H, and was bent over it as he entered the office, crossed to his oversized custom-built chair, and sat. He didn't bite at once because his mind was elsewhere. Even before he rang for beer he asked, "Has the sausage come?" Without looking up I told him no. He pressed the button twice--the beer signal--leaned back, and frowned at me. I didn't see the frown, absorbed as I was in the dictionary, but it was in his tone of voice. "What are you looking up?" he demanded. "Oh, just a word," I said casually. "Checking up on our client. I thought she was illiterate, her calling you handsome--remember? But, by gum, it was merely an understatement. Here it is, absolutely kosher: 'Handsome: moderately large.' For example it gives 'a handsome sum of money.' So she was dead right, you're a handsome detective, meaning a moderately large detective." I closed the dictionary and returned it to its place, remarking cheerfully, "Live and learn!

In your entire military career, there was only one failure. One target in your sights that you and Ryan couldn’t eliminate.” “Sure,” I agree. “Bishop. We came close, but the son of a bitch was good.” “Yeah, sure is.” Something in his tone – and word choice – makes me look twice. I blanch. “You?” Derek snorts. “You seriously didn’t know? Jesus, how do you call yourself a genius?

Help, help, I’m being kidnapped,” Navi murmured in a dry tone. She reached up to flick her fingers against his abs. His brows wrinkled at the feeble attempt. “Oh well,” she continued, unable to hide the hint of a grin on her lips. “Didn’t work. I suppose I’ll resign myself to my horrible fate.

But my dear sir, the United Irishmen were primarily Protestants – their leaders were Protestants. Wolfe Tone and Napper Tandy were Protestants. The Emmets, the O’Connors, Simon Butler, Hamilton Rowan, Lord Edward Fitzgerald were Protestants. And the whole idea of the club was to unite Protestant and Catholic and Presbyterian Irishmen. The Protestants it was who took the initiative.

His mind reached out for Raven’s, craving the contact. What are you doing all alone in that spooky old house? Her soft laugher filled his utter coldness with warmth. Waiting for my big bad wolf to come home. Do you have your clothes on? This time her response sent fingers playing over his skin, touching him intimately, heating his body. Warmth, laughter. He hated being away from her, hated the distance separating them. Of course I have my clothes on! What if more unexpected visitors arrive? I can’t very well greet them naked, can I? She was teasing, but the thought of anyone approaching his home with her alone and unprotected made a sliver of fear slice through him. It was an unfamiliar emotion, and he almost couldn’t identify it. Mikhail? Are you all right? Do you need me? I’ll come to you. Stay there. Listen for the wolves. If they sing to you, call me right away. Do not wait. There was that brief hesitation that meant she was annoyed with his tone. I don’t want you to worry about me, Mikhail. You have enough people who make demands on you. Perhaps that is so, little one, but you are the only one I truly give a damn about. And drink another glass of juice. You will find some in the refrigerator. He broke contact, smiling at their brief exchange. She would have argued over the order for nourishment if he had waited long enough. He rather liked to irritate her sometimes. He liked the way her blue eyes deepened into sapphire, and how she got that little edge in her carefully controlled voice. Mikhail? Her voice startled him, low and warm and filled with feminine amusement. Try making suggestions next time, or just plain asking. You go do whatever it is you’re doing, and I’ll search your extensive library for a book on manners. He nearly forgot he was crouched at the base of a tree only a few hundred feet from the shack belonging to Hans and Heidi Romanov. Mikhail managed to suppress his urge to laugh. You will not find one. Why am I not surprised? This time Raven broke contact.

Every cat is royal,” Mani declared in a tone that said he would be mad if you argued. “I am myself.

Wolfe stated in a husky tone, “I may fail over and over again trying to communicate with you, and that will be my fault. I will continue to try to be better. But in this, in pleasuring your body? I will excel.

It was crazy how my mother still had the power to make me stand up straight just by the tone of her voice. She also had the ability to make me feel like a failure, despite my near-perfect grades. Other seniors were slacking off once they were accepted into college, but I kept up with my assignments because it was ingrained in me to do so. Slacking off wasn’t part of my chemical makeup.