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“She supposed the young colored men of Link's generation couldn't have manners like Mr. Powther's, though she didn't know why. Wars and atom bombs and the fact that there was so much hate in the world might have something to do with it. There were times when she had thought that rudeness was a characteristic of Link's; that other young men had a natural courtesy he would never have. Then she would see or hear something in The Narrows that suggested all these young men were alike--something had brutalized them. But what?”

“She suppressed an eye roll when he reiterated his question as if she had not heard it. She regarded him more closely then, and not for the first time, she noted that he was a handsome man. Alarmingly so. Were he anything other than a vicar and she anyone else but his patroness, she might have found herself attracted to him, in fact. The wildly inappropriate notion amused her while also sending a warm wave throughout her body, and she fanned herself again as she laughed aloud. Embarrassed by her sudden outburst, she managed to sober herself before speaking. “Next Sunday, you say?” “Yes, next Sunday. Why do you laugh?” Nerves, she supposed, and then she laughed again. “I don’t really know.” “You don’t really know whether you’ll attend church next Sunday, or you don’t really know why you are laughing?” “A little of both, perhaps.” She laughed yet again, and when he did not, she sucked in her cheeks in an attempt to stifle more laughter. “Forgive me, Mr. Rodman. In answer to your question, I don’t know whether I’ll be in church next Sunday. I could be back in London then, for all I know.”

“She surveyed him for a long moment, her brows knitting together. "Murder?" His grin grew. "Thank you, but no. I started a riot on t he yard." He adjusted his collar, before adding, "We were protesting the soap." Her confusion grew, and Thorne noticed that she was still in her defensive stance. "The soap," he said again, wondering if she'd heard him. "It's too drying." She said nothing. "I have sensitive skin.”

“She surveyed the undergrowth and focused on a cluster of fern fronds curled tightly against the new life they had been given. She often wondered why the fern’s new existence was so firmly wound up. But she questioned their response no longer. Oaklee felt every muscle in her body want to curl up in self-protection, to comfort the pain, anger, and fear.”

“She swallowed and licked her lips. “It’s rather good.” He laughed breathlessly. Have care, part of his brain whispered. This way only leads to pain. But his c*ck was pressing hard against the placket of his breeches and he wanted to take her hand and draw her away to his rooms and keep her there until she learned to scream in pleasure. Until she screamed his name and no other.”

“She swallowed and looked down at the artichoke petals piled neatly on the side of her plate. Her center certainly felt like it was melting, growing soft and wet just from the rasp of Mr. O'Connor's voice. Why should a man already devilishly handsome also have a voice that could charm birds from the sky? It simply wasn't fair.”

“She swallowed, watching as the servants and Harry and Bert trooped out of the room. Lad, apparently not the brightest dog in the world, sat down next to Mickey O’Connor and leaned against his leg. Mr. O’Connor looked at the dog, looked at the damp spot growing on his breeches where the dog was leaning, and sighed. “I find me life is not as quiet as it used to be afore ye came to me palace, Mrs. Hollingbrook.” Silence lifted her chin. “You’re a pirate, Mr. O’Connor. I cannot believe your life was ever very quiet.” He gave her an ironic look. “Aye, amazin’, isn’t it? Yet since yer arrival me servants no longer obey me and I return home to find me kitchen flooded.” He crossed to a cupboard and took down a china teapot, a tin of tea, and a teacup. “And me dog smells like a whorehouse.” Silence glanced guiltily at Lad. “The only soap we could find was rose scented.”

“She swallows and swallows the water. And as she swallows she swallows the possibility she will always be alone. Swallows the river that will flow into the sea that is made from other waters that have flowed from mountains and hills, that will leak into oceans. She swallows geography, learns to swim in changing tides and temperatures, learns different strokes of the arms and legs, learns to speak in many tongues. She does this because she has no choice but to do so, and she comes out of the river to find him there, holding her earrings in his hand, and he says, ‘But they don’t fit. Who are you?’" (from "Swallowing Geography" by Deborah Levy)”

“She swat his hand away as he touched her breast again. "Stop that. I just want to-" Undeterred, he had gone for the button placket of her shirt. She scowled in exasperation. "All right, then," she snapped, "do as you please! Perhaps afterward we could manage a coherent discussion." Twisting beneath him, she flopped onto her stomach. Christopher went still. After a long hesitation, she heard him ask in a far normal voice, "What are you doing?" "I'm making it easier for you," came her defiant reply. "Go on, start ravishing." Another silence. Then, "Why are you facing downward?" "Because that's how it's done." Beatrix twisted to look at him over her shoulder. A twinge of uncertainty caused her to ask, "Isn't it?" His face was blank. "Has no one ever told you?" "No, but I've read about it." Christopher rolled off her, relieving her of his weight. He wore an odd expression as he asked, "From what books?" "Veterinary manuals. And of course, I've observed the squirrels in springtime, and farm animals and-" She was interrupted as Christopher cleared his throat loudly, and again. Darting a confused glance at him, she realized that he was trying to choke back amusement. Beatrix began to feel indignant. Her first time in a bed with a man, and he was laughing. "Look here," she said in a businesslike manner, "I've read about the mating habits of over two dozen species, and with the exception of snails, whose genitalia is on their necks, they all-" She broke off and frowned. "Why are you laughing at me?" Christopher had collapsed, overcome with hilarity. As he lifted his head and saw her affronted expression, he struggled manfully with another outburst. "Beatrix. I'm... I'm not laughing at you." "You are!" "No, I'm not. It's just..." He swiped a tear from the corner of his eye, and a few more chuckles escaped. "Squirrels..." "Well, it may be humorous to you, but it's a very serious matter to the squirrels." That set him off again. In a display of rank insensitivity to the reproductive rights of small mammals, Christopher had buried his face in a pillow, his shoulders shaking. "What is so amusing about fornicating squirrels?" Beatrix asked irritably. By this time he had gone into near apoplexy. "No more," he gasped. "Please." "I gather it's not the same for people," Beatrix said with great dignity, inwardly mortified. "They don't go about it the same way that animals do?" Fighting to control himself, Christopher rolled to face her. His eyes were brilliant with unspent laughter. "Yes. No. That is, they do, but..." "But you don't prefer it that way?" Considering how to answer her, Christopher reached out to smooth her disheveled hair, which was falling out of its pins. "I do. I'm quite enthusiastic about it, actually. But it's not right for your first time." "Why not?" Christopher looked at her, a slow smile curving his lips. His voice deepened as he asked, "Shall I show you?" Beatrix was transfixed.”

“She swung her fist at Nicolae’s head. He raised an arm to block the blow, and she delivered a killing stab with her wooden dagger. Nicolae laughed, staggering dramatically to the ground. “Dead, again, at the hands of the ugliest girl in creation.” He stuck out his tongue, face contorted in a grimace. Lada kicked him in the stomach. “I am no girl. Who is next?” The other Janissaries, gathered in a loose circle around Lada and Nicolae, shuffled their feet and avoided eye contact. Nicolae pushed himself up on an elbow. “Really? Cowards!” “I still have bruises from the last time.” “I cannot sit without pain.” “She fights dirty.” Ivan did not even respond, having never forgiven Lada for besting him when they were introduced. He refused to fight her and rarely acknowledged her presence. Lada laughed, showing all her sharp teeth. “Because when you are on the battlefield, honor will mean so much. You will die with a blade between your ribs, secure in the knowledge that you fought with manners.” She picked up her dull practice sword, abandoned on the edge of the circle, and swung it through the air, sweeping it across the line of the Janissaries’ collective throats.”

“She swung her legs around his waist and crossed her ankles behind his back. “I like the way your mind works,” she panted before losing herself in the sensation of his hardness rubbing against her core. Lief took the few steps across the room to the bed in record time and flung her down on the covers. He leaned back to tear his clothes off. “My mind hardly works at all when you are near.” She chuckled leaning back on her elbows, enjoying the view of naked flesh being revealed. She rose up on her knees and traced the ridges on his chest and abdomen. As her fingers trailed down toward his proud shaft, he captured her wrists. “Be careful.” He smiled down at her. “I’m loaded and might go off any minute.” She laughed. “You’ve been watching too many old Western movies with Harold.”

“She takes a cautious approach to toasting bread. She does it by degrees, nervous of burning it. But the trouble is, by popping it up and down five times to check on its progress, she provides herself with plenty of opportunities to forget about the toast entirely and burn it to a crisp. Her cautious approach to toasting, I fancy, actually has the unintended consequence of making it more likely she'll burn her breakfast. Is there a life lesson in this, I wonder?”

“She takes a step toward me and slides her hands between my folded arms, pushing against them until they unlock. “Daniel Wesley you owe me a do-over since you made me kiss you in a crowded restaurant right next to a dirty diaper.” “It wasn’t crowded,” I interject. She glares at me. “Put your hands on my face and push me against this wall and slip me some tongue! Now!” Before she can laugh at herself, my hands are casing her face and her back is pressed against the wall of her house and my mouth is on hers.”

“She takes up the brush, dips it, and, on the same piece of paper, executes the first stroke. "Do not think about the character you're making. Only think about the line, the single movement. It's like a dance, ne? If you concentrate too much on the final steps, you will miss the present ones." Another stroke, one more, and she has completed the pictograph. It is beautiful, worthy of being on a wall, and I say so. She shakes her head. "I still have much to learn, but it is passable. It doesn't have to be perfect, however. Kanji is an expression of the soul.”