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“Once he preached a sermon on "Music at Zion Church" and sent me word that I must be sure to be there, for I would hear him make mention of my father. That is just about typical of Protestant pulpit oratory in the more "liberal" quarters. I went, dutifully, that morning, but before he got around to the part in which I was supposed to be personally interested, I got an attack of my head-spinning and went out into the air. When the sermon was being preached, I was sitting on the church steps in the sun, talking to a black-gowned verger, or whatever he was called. By the time I felt better, the sermon was over. I cannot say I went to this church very often: but the measure of my zeal may be judged by the fact that I once went even in the middle of the week. I forget what was the occasion: Ash Wednesday or Holy Thursday. There were one or two women in the place, and myself lurking in one of the back benches. We said some prayers. It was soon over. By the time it was, I had worked up courage to take the train into New York and go to Columbia for the day.”

“Once he reaches my ribs, he moves his hands to my arms, running them up to my shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re wearing,” he says. “But I like it.” “Custom-made,” I say. “And then stolen by you?” I shrug. “What are you doing?” “What does it look like I’m doing?” “You’re touching me.” “I’m trying to get my key back.” “Sounds like an excuse to touch me.” He smiles and leans forward so his mouth is at my ear. “I don’t see you stopping me.” “If I had, I wouldn’t be able to do this.” His eyes shoot up in alarm, but he doesn’t have enough time to guess what I’m about to do until I’ve already done it. Yes, I knee him. Right between the legs. He takes some time to recover. Enough for me to exit the cell and lock him in. He stares at me levelly. “That was low.”

“Once," he said, "people believed that they lived in little boxes, boxes that contained their whole stories, and that there was no need to worry much about what other people were doing in their other little boxes, whether nearby or far away. Other people's stories had nothing to do with ours. But then the world got smaller and all the boxes got pushed up against all the other boxes and opened up, and now that all the boxes are connected to all the other boxes, we have to understand what's going on in all the boxes we aren't in, otherwise we don't know why the things happening in our boxes are happening. Everything is connected.”

“Once, he thought, I would have seen the stars. Years ago. But now it's only the dust; no one has seen a star in years, at least not from Earth. Maybe I'll go where I can see stars, he said to himself as the car gained velocity and altitude; it headed away from San Francisco, toward the uninhabited desolation to the north. To the place where no living thing would go. Not unless it felt that the end had come.”

“Once he went into debt, Andrew’s imperative shifted. He kept betting less to try to recover his losses or his ego and more to win money that would allow him to prevent anyone from discovering his gambling problem. Andrew’s doubling down speaks to an important feature of gambling disorder: It represents the only addiction where the affected individual can reasonably hope their addiction will solve the problems that stem from that addiction. Someone dependent on alcohol, for instance, has no reason to hope that their next drink will relieve them of their substance use disorder. A problem gambler, on the other hand, can hold on to the belief that all it takes is one big win to wipe out all of their debt, and therefore all the negative consequences of their gambling. As a result, many keep betting, and keep losing, which only makes them more desperate to bet, and so on. Andrew fell into this exact trap. He would gamble, and the feeling of his life hanging in the balance only made his bets even more thrilling. Eventually, he would win enough to come close to getting out of credit card debt. Rather than stop betting, he would push to try and get enough for all of it. Then he would start to lose again. And the cycle would continue.”

“Once Henry had heard a crying noise at sea, and had seen a mermaid floating on the ocean's surface. The mermaid had been injured by a shark. Henry had pulled the mermaid out of the water with a rope, and she had died in his arms..."what language did the mermaid speak?" Alma wanted to know, imagining that it like almost have to be Greek. "English!" Henry said. "By God, plum, why would I rescue a deuced foreign mermaid?”

“Once home [in 1838], Albert prepared a small album of scenes he had drawn on the journey, a dried ‘Rose des Alpes, and a scrap of Voltaire’s handwriting he had obtained from an old servant of the philosopher at Verney, and posted the souvenir to Victoria. Years later she attested it was 'one of her greatest treasures.”

“Once I became an adult and started to pursue writing as a professional career, I realized my main characters were always young people. My stories naturally center around children and teenagers. I think it's because I have worked with youth for about twelve years. The pains and joys of adolescents are moments I witness on a daily basis, so their stories are always with me as I write.”