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Quote by Janet Rich Edwards

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Canticle

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Janet Rich Edwards

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“The inside of the Trace Italian, of course, does not exist. A player can get close enough to see it: it shines in the new deserts of Kansas, gleaming in the sun or starkly rising from the winter cold. The rock walls that protect it meet in points around it, one giving way to another, for days on end. But the dungeons into which you'll fall as you work through the pathways to its gates number in the low hundreds, and if you actually get into the entry hall, there are a few hundred more sub-dungeons before you'll actually reach somewhere that's truly safe. Technically, it's possible to get to the last room in the final chamber of the Trace Italian, but no one will ever do it. No one will ever live that long.”

DeathEternitySafetyDesertGameKansasDungeons
Book:Wolf in White Van
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“People either build a castle or a dungeon. The former by their virtues, pull people into positive edifices with gainful impression. The later by their vices, push people into negative huts with painful oppression.”

PeoplePainLeadershipLeaderVirtueSelf ImprovementGainsFood For ThoughtPainfulVicesIsraelmore AyivorPersonal DevelopmentGoodHealImpressionOppressionLeadersImpressBadManipulateCastlesMisleadKillOppressorsDungeonsEdificeVirtuesGainViceLead PeopleCastlePushGood Or BadManipulatorOppressorPainsOppressOppressiveDungeonMisleadersManipulationsManipulatorsPain And GainGainfulMisleaderEdifices
Book:Leaders' Ladder
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“He stopped, gazing at the girl who stood before it. The man guessed the child to be ten years old. She had dark brown hair to her neck with ends that showed curls, ivory skin and large eyes of sapphire blue. Thin and barefooted, with soot on her face she wore an old, tattered white dress. As the child turned to look at him, the man thought she must be an orphan beggar and he was unable to tear his face away from her eyes. Those bright blue eyes filled with an incomprehensible sadness. What pain did she carry?”

EnglandHistorical RomanceEdwardian Era
Book:Windswept
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“Anna shouted, “Help me! I’m naked and covered in honey!” Wolf slid across the kitchen tile, heading for the basement stairs like Hermes in a footrace. “Hold tight, honeybun! Here I come!” Joe Singer charged behind him with the lantern. Wolf was not going to see Anna in her honey, even if he had to shoot him. This was not police work. This was personal. He hurled himself at Wolf. “She’s my girl!” “Not anymore!”

MysteryHistorical FictionHistorical Fiction MysteryEdwardian EraThe Woman In The Camphor Trunk
Book:The Woman in the Camphor Trunk
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