#i should quote Glee more often dear god

[incorrectviolettaquotes]

Leon: Gregorio tortures us for no reason and tries to get the entire school to hate us.

Ludmila: Yesterday he filled Naty’s and my locker with dirt.

Pablo, starting to write on the board: Okay, okay, slow down, slow down!

Violetta: Well, he literally throws sticks at me.

Pablo: Okay, okay, what else?

Tomas: He called the Buenos Aires secretary estate saying he was me and he wanted to legally change my name to Tomas Heredia-Loser.

Pablo: He-

#source: glee #i should quote Glee more often dear god #That’s one of the few shows where Violetta characters COULD actually legit say it since there’s similar themes #Pablo Galindo #Ludmila ferro #Tomas heredia #violetta castillo

[marveliciousfanace]

Aziraphale telling the story of how he and crowley met each other in eden to the humans

So, this may not be precisely what you wanted, but since their storytelling skills are kind of crap I think it still fits their characters and is kind of cute. I had fun writing it, though, so thank you and I hope you like reading it, anon.

___

One of Crowley’s favourite intangible human inventionswas the concept of “fashionably late.” There was something incredibly funny tohim about the idea that humans could get together in a way that openly admitted“yes, I would like to waste your time as a host because I can’t be bothered toget there when you request” and was returned with “I understand completely, Iwould prefer you waste my time rather than simply lying to you about what time Ireally wish you to be there so you get there when I actually would like.” Itmade him laugh. He employed it often.

Never with Aziraphale, though, not if he could avoidit, which was why he was actually a little flustered as he pulled up to JasmineCottage doing sixty over the speed limit, coming to a halt so fast the tiresskidded and smoked. He stalked up the front path, pushing his sunglasses higherup the bridge of his nose and eyeing the horseshoe over the door with disdain,surprised when he crossed under it without so much as a flash of heat. Heglanced up again, and from the new angle noticed a sigil etched into the metal,so neatly it could only have been done by magic. He smiled.

Accepting the dinner party invitation had beenAziraphale’s idea, not his, but the angel had said it was only right to go,given the recent near-ending of the world. Humans bonded over that sort ofthing, he’d said, and anyway they probably owed them a bit of an explanation.Crowley had been all for leaving them to wonder, but Aziraphale had given him asoft, hopeful expression and Crowley’s resolve had crumbled.

He could hear voices from the kitchen as he steppedinside, although the view was blocked by a large cabinet. Too many voices forso small a house, and several of them probably too young to acceptably be at adinner party without their parents, unless reality warping was involved.Crowley stifled a snort, and then paused as the actual conversation becameclear.

“No, my dear, when I say we’ve known each other forever,I actually do mean it,” Aziraphale was saying. “Well, perhaps not truly forever, but since the beginningof the world, at any rate.”

There was silence. Then a young woman – Anathema,Crowley thought – said slowly, “So, when you were going on about the serpentand the apple tree…”

“Yes, precisely!” Crowley can hear the beam in Aziraphale’svoice. “I was the Angel of the Eastern Gate, on guard duty, and somehow he gotin – not past me, I shouldn’t think,” he added hurriedly, and he was right, becauseCrowley hadn’t even had to pass an angel to get in, what with Hell and tunnellingup from the ground, “but he did get in, and he told Eve to eat the apple-“

“Hang on,” Crowley interrupted, rounding the cornerand leaning against the counter with folded arms. “I never said she had to eat the apple. I just pointed outthat it was a bit stupid to make such a show of the whole thing. Apple, big ‘notouch’ sign. I didn’t even say she shouldeat it. I just asked what the harm was. I didn’t know.” He’s had sixthousand years now to reflect on it. He’s pretty sure, in retrospect, that he’ddone the right thing. It doesn’t worry him like it used to. He gave Aziraphalea pointed look, “And anyway, I wasn’t the one who gave war to humans, was I?”

Aziraphale looked askance. “I did not-“

“You gave them the flaming sword that became theweapon of War, though,” Crowley pointed out, sauntering across the room anddropping into the last empty chair, crammed in at the table next to Aziraphale’s.“Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? What was that quote about paved roadsand good intentions?” He grinned at Aziraphale, who glared at him right upuntil Crowley threaded their fingers together under the table. Then he brokeinto a sappy smile again. Crowley leaned into his shoulder and glanced aroundthe room.

The humans were all staring at them, mouths figurativelyand in some cases literally agape. The four children, clustered at their end ofthe table, seemed less affected, watching more with curiosity. Adam even smiled.

Anathema was the one who recovered her wits first.Clever, that one. Crowley had a nagging suspicion he was going to like her. “Hangon,” she said. “So, you,” she pointed at Crowley, “were the serpent in thegarden of Eden. The actual reason why God cast humanity out of paradise.”

“Er, yes,” Crowley admitted. “Sorry?”

“And you,” Anathema pointed at Aziraphale, “gavehumans that flaming sword thing from the airbase, the one the…red woman wascarrying? And she’s War, and you gave Adamand Eve a sword.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said. He looked faintly embarrassed.“It seemed the right thing to do at the time.”

“Right.” Anathema looked between them again. “Sorry,and how does this relate to the wayyou met?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale perked up, and Crowley resisted theurge to roll his eyes fondly. “So you see,” the angel explained, “after thatwhole bit with the apple and the sword, first rainstorm and all, God castingthem out, we met on the wall.”

“The wall?”

“Surrounding Eden,” Aziraphale said. “I was watching,you know, worried, and Crowley came up to watch too, and we got to talking-“

“You got to talking?” Newt, who had been doing anexcellent impression of what computers did whenever he touched them, finallycame back online. “If you’re really an angel and a demon, shouldn’t you havefought or something?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged looks. Under thetable, their laced fingers tightened around each other. “Didn’t really seem necessary,”Crowley said. “Didn’t have any orders to. Not really my style, anyway.”

“Nor mine,” Aziraphale agreed. He wasn’t smilinganymore, but there was a softness to his features. Crowley leaned into him alittle more heavily. Aziraphale looked at Anathema. “Anyway, that was how wemet. In Eden.”

“We debated Good and Evil,” Crowley murmured. He washalf on Aziraphale’s lap by that point, but he could blame it on the closequarters. “It was a good first date.”

“It was hardly a first date,” Aziraphale said. “Ourfirst date was the Ritz last week.”

“Last week?” Crowley straightened up, snorting withglee. “Angel, we’ve been dating for thousandsof years. I saved Hamlet for you!We got oysters at a gay bar in Rome.”

“Yes, but-“

“Just because we were too stupid to call them thatdoesn’t mean they weren’t.”

Aziraphale blinked, like he hadn’t considered that,and Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Oh,” Aziraphale said, and then smiled. “Wellthen. I believe you’re right. Eden was a rather good first date.”

Anathema mumbled something that sounded like answers that question then. She blusheda little when she caught Crowley looking and cleared her throat loudly. “So,who wants some more salad?”

Crowley grinned. Under the table, he squeezed Aziraphale’shand. After a heartbeat, Aziraphale squeezed back.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #my thoughts #my writings #thank you for the prompt! #its not my best work but i had fun with it

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

When Love Must Die (Aziraphale/Crowley; chapter 7)

Link to chapter 1 (masterlist)

Tagging  @armaggedidnt @oh-hamlet @foxyfoe-reblog @s3dgy @butttteeerrrrrr @swanheart69 @giulisetta  @tonystark5ever @agentlokii @tardisoftheshire

_____________________________

Chapter 7

“What is the meaning of this?” the demon growls, slapping his hands angrily against the invisible barrier that surrounds him.  

 The barrier holds, undisturbed, and Aziraphale’s lips twitch in minute triumph.  “I need information,” he begins, fighting the urge to clasp his fingers in front of him as is his wont.  He’s channeling Michael now, and Michael stands tall, confident, doesn’t fidget with her hands.  Which means, Aziraphale can’t afford to either.

 Hastur glares at him sullenly, fists pressed against the wall of power that entraps him.  “And you couldn’t just go down to Hell like you normally do?  You decided to opt for this… this… travesty instead?”

 Aziraphale thinks back to his less than pleasant stint in the bowels of Hell when he was dragged down there disguised as Crowley, digs deep for the scowl of disdain he’s seen often enough on Michael’s face.  “What makes you think I’d want to go back down to that overcrowded sewer any time soon?” He makes a show of brushing invisible dirt off the snow-white sleeve of his borrowed coat.  “No, thank you.”

 Hastur’s lip curls into a snarl.  “Didn’t seem to bother you much when you came to us looking for that poison to take care of your ‘angel problem’,” the demon throws up his hands in a mockery of air quotes.

 It takes all of his willpower for Aziraphale to keep the disguise from slipping.

 Michael, his mind spins feverishly, it was Michael.  Oh dear God…. The knowledge, the very thought that an angel, an archangel, was responsible for this!  That an archangel would stoop so low – to literally go down to Hell – just for the sake of settling an old score with him! It rattled him, hard – a violent electric shock deep through his very core.  How could she?  How could any of them?

 “So what is it now?” the demon’s voice cuts through the churn of his distressed thoughts, bringing him back to the here and now.  He needs to focus, dammit.  Crowley’s life’s at stake!  “Did the poison not work?”

 “No, no,” he manages, forcing a grimace of a smile onto thin, gold-speckled lips.  “It did wonders on that traitorous angel.  He’s no longer a problem for us.”

 “What is then?” Hastur barks out, impatient.

 “Crowley,” the angel states, fighting to keep his expression neutral. Because as desperately as he needs to know where his demon is, he can’t afford to slip up now, can’t let Hastur catch even a whiff of his desperation.  “I was hoping to use the rest of that cursed potion on the demon – two birds, one stone kinda thing – but I can’t seem to find him anywhere,” he continues, aiming for somewhere between bored indifference and mild annoyance. “I was hoping maybe you, lot, knew something of his whereabouts?”

 Hastur glares at him silently for a long moment, black eye unblinking behind the thick transparent wall, and then suddenly, inexplicably begins to laugh.

 “Care to let me in on the joke?” Aziraphale snaps, the demon’s laughter grating on his already too-too frayed nerves.

The slightly hysterical, high-pitched laughter ceases as abruptly as it starts, but the demon doesn’t speak for a long moment, observing the disguised angel before him with an unsettlingly triumphant looking snarl.

 “Some of us have been making bets Down Below if you, white-feathered freaks, knew anything about it,” he drawls out finally, the snarl growing wider, and impossibly more smug. “Guess Dagon owes me a month of sewage cleanup.”

 “You’re trying my patience, demon!” Aziraphale steps flush to the barrier, one hand raised in warning. “Explain yourself. Now.”

 The unequivocal threat works like a bucket of cold water poured over the head.  The demon stiffens, his grin fading as pitch-black eyes flash nervously to the raised appendage.  “Alright, alright,” he grumbles with feigned annoyance, “don’t get your feathers in a twist.” His mouth twists as if he had just swallowed something entirely too bitter, and he spits out a reluctant, “He’s Downstairs, the Serpent. We have him.” Promises, his face morphing into a cruel, bloodthirsty moue, “And he won’t be getting out this time either.  Not with everything his Brother has planned for him.”  

 Aziraphale huffs out a breath – relief mixed with worry.  Crowley is alive, he knows that much for certain now.  But how bad are his injuries? What exactly have the demons done to him? How will Aziraphale be able to find him in that mildew and sewage smelling maze.

 And then his mind catches up to the last bit of what Hastur has said.  

 And grinds to a halt.

 “I’m sorry…,” he blinks at the demon, too stunned to try and hide his confusion, “his… what?”

 Hastur’s grin is back, as smug as ever, if a bit tempered by the obvious unease at the angel’s closeness. “That’s right,” he murmurs, almost crowing with delight, “you, lot, don’t know.” A blackened tongue flicks out to run with perverted pleasure over the thin lips. “He ain’t a demon anymore.  Don’t know how it happened, don’t really care, but his demonic essence…,” Hastur makes a poof! gesture with his hands, “gone! He’s one of yours now. An arch-angel.  Ra-pha-el,” he adds mockingly, “according to our Master, at least.  And our Master is never wrong.”

 “A demon can’t… that’s… that’s not possible….,” the quiet gasp leaves Aziraphale’s mouth unbidden, his composure faltering.  Because… because… it’s crazy is what it is.  There’s no way that–

 “Should have been, yeah,” Hastur agrees, smiling wider now, emboldened by the angel’s obvious fluster. “Whatever did that to his essence, should have destroyed him completely, but the bastard must have been clinging to his past self harder than any of us, so that… that…,” the demon’s mouth twists with disgust, “angelic… core was still buried underneath.”  His cheek twitches, an expression of open revulsion crawling onto his face.  “Always knew that snake was a traitor!”  He spits – a gooey black glob landing at his feet.  Huffs out something close to a laugh, winking conspiratorially at Aziraphale, “But at least now we know why holy water didn’t harm the bastard, eh, Michael?  Not that it’s been any help to him now.”  

 The unconcealed glee in the demon’s voice is the last straw.  

 Aziraphale doesn’t realize he’s moved until he finds himself with a fistful of a squealing and wildly struggling demon, slightly singed for having been unceremoniously dragged through the active (and resisting) barrier.  

 “You’re lying!” he growls out, shaking the demon as if he were a sack of potatoes, his free hand manifesting the flaming sword without conscious thought.  “You’re lying, and I’m–”

 “I’m not! I’m not, I swear!” Hastur yowls in fear and pain, squirming in the angel’s grip as he tries to shy away from the holy flames that burn uncomfortably close to his face.  “Look… look in my memory!”

 Aziraphale stares at him a heartbeat longer, then shoves him down on his knees, releasing his grip on the demon’s clothes.  Lowers the flaming sword to point it at the demon’s neck.  “Don’t move!”  And presses the fingers of his left hand against Hastur’s forehead.

 Images flood into his mind in rapid succession: the vengeful, angry twist of Satan’s face as he holds Crowley in the air, his body twitching feebly, pierced through with a line of unnaturally long, razor-sharp claws; Crowley in a cell – beaten, stabbed, burned, the cycle repeating itself over and over like a broken record on a never-ending loop; Crowley with his skin flayed like a cut up paper garland; Crowley crying in pain as the hands Aziraphale recognizes as Hastur’s rip viciously into Crowley’s wings – white, so impossibly, so incredibly white – and twist and bend and break them beyond all recognition, Hastur’s voice mocking his pain from somewhere off-screen….

 He gasps, stumbling back a step, eyes wide with the horrors of what he had just seen.  A red haze descends upon his vision – a blinding, all-encompassing wave of righteous fury, the likes of which he has never felt before. He’s shaking, he realizes.  Trembling all over.  And he can’t breathe.  He can’t bloody breathe!

 “Well?” Hastur’s words reach him as through a thick wall of fog, and he blinks, forcing himself to focus on the leering, expectant face.  “You believe me now? You approve of how we’re handling your ‘second little problem’? Is it–”

 The hand holding the sword swings out, and the rest of Hastur’s words die out, choked off on a quiet, helpless gurgle.

------------

TBC

#aziraphale #crowley #good omens #good omens fic #aziraphale/crowley #sjsob good omens fics #somethingjustsouthofbrilliance writes #hurt/comfort #angst

[perryavenue]

Elementary, My Dear Anderson; Complete!

Chapter Thirteen                                Also on AO3

Chapter One Chapter Two  Chapter Three  Chapter Four  Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve

Note: This fic is complete! I hope you've had as much fun reading it as I've had writing it. Thank you for coming along for the ride on this Klaine/Sherlock Holmes mash-up! Huge thanks to @flowerfan2, my beta, my dear friend, and the one who happily pushed me into resurrecting this two year old idea from the ashes. And thank you to @slayediest @klaineadvent and @todaydreambelieversfic for keeping the candle lit for us.

Day 24: Santa

“Blaine? Blaine, honey, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”

Blaine felt like he was swimming up from deep water.  Everything seemed really heavy and slow.  He tried opening his eyes but the light was too bright and it hurt.  His head ached, he was nauseous, and the left side of his body was sore. What had happened to him? He would be panicking, except that was Kurt’s voice next to him, and Kurt holding his hand tightly. He tried squeezing back, but he seemed to have lost most of his strength. A lighter press would have to do.

He smelled Kurt’s cologne, and then felt his lips on his cheek. Maybe he should try opening his eyes again.

There was his husband, his face bent down close to his, with red-rimmed eyes and a very scared expression on his face.  That was a look that never failed to gut Blaine. All he wanted to do was make it go away.

“Hey,” Blaine said softly. “What happened?”

Kurt swallowed and gripped Blaine’s hand more tightly. Blaine tried to lift his other arm to pull Kurt to him, which was when he realized it was tethered to an IV. That frightened him.

“Kurt! Am I okay?”

Someone else came into view, a woman wearing a white medical coat.

“Hi, Blaine. I’m Dr. Abutra. I’m a neurologist, and you’re at Lima Memorial Hospital. You’re going to be fine.  Nothing’s broken. You hurt your head, and we’re treating you for a mild concussion. You also have bruising along your left arm and ribs. Do you remember what happened to you?”

Blaine’s thoughts seemed all jumbled.  He had memories of Kurt as Sherlock Holmes and him as Dr. Watson (why was he Dr. Watson? Kurt had been in that play, not him!), and somehow, most of the people they knew in Lima had been involved, too.

Blaine closed his eyes again. “I’m trying to remember but everything seems all mixed up.  I think it’s making me feel worse. Ugh, my head hurts, and my stomach...”

“That’s okay,” Dr. Abutra said soothingly.  “That’s a normal response to a concussion.  No more questions for a while, then. Try not to think too hard about anything right now. Do you meditate?”

Blaine started to nod but doing that hurt, too. “Yes.”

Dr. Abutra looked pleased. “Good. Concentrate for now on emptying your mind and breathing slowly, in through your nose and out through your mouth.” Blaine immediately began to do just that, and found it helped.

Kurt still looked worried. “Can I stay with him?”

Dr. Abutra nodded. “Of course.  But it is starting to get late. We’re going to keep him overnight for observation.  Right now, the best thing for him is rest.  So you should decide if you want to go home at some point, and come back in the morning, or stay here. Blaine, I’ll be back to check on you later.”

Once they were alone, Blaine pressed Kurt’s hand again. “My eyes are closed because the light hurts, but I’m awake. You can talk to me.”

Kurt leaned down to kiss Blaine again, and he could feel the wetness from Kurt’s tears.  

“Please don’t cry. You heard what the doctor said. I’m going to be fine.”

Kurt wiped his eyes with a tissue. “You have no idea how scared we were. They couldn’t tell us if you were badly hurt or not until maybe a half hour ago, when all the test and scan results came back.”

Blaine shifted slightly on the mattress to get more comfortable. “How long have I been like this?”

“Maybe four hours? I don’t think you’ve been unconscious the whole time though.  The doctors and nurses said you were mumbling a lot. They actually got concerned, thinking you were hallucinating.”

Kurt giggled despite himself.  “They said they couldn’t make out most of what you were saying, but one word you kept repeating was ‘Holmes.’  They thought that maybe you were a builder or worked in real estate until I figured out you must have been talking about my play.”

Blaine groaned. “Oh my god. It was like I had entered a parallel universe.  We and our friends all existed but somehow did different things? You and I had English accents, I was Watson, and I don’t even think we were married to each other.  Plus Rachel made a pass at me.”

“No way!” Kurt exclaimed. But then he looked thoughtful. “You know, for Rachel, that’s not a surprise.”

Blaine groaned again, but this time from the headache and nausea.  “I think I may have just pushed my brain too hard. I’m going to do the breathing exercises again.”

Kurt sighed. “Oh sweetie. Let me go outside for a minute to speak to Dad and Carole while you rest. I’ll fill them in, and we’ll figure out what we’re doing.  I’m the only one they’re allowing to see you for now. I’ll be back.” Kurt leaned down and kissed Blaine again, but on the lips.

Blaine smiled, keeping his eyes closed.

*

The next morning, Kurt was at his husband’s side, both listening to the nurse’s discharge instructions.

“Blaine, for the next few days, you need to take it easy.  That means you want to limit your thinking/remembering activities to prevent your symptoms from getting worse.”

Blaine and Kurt nodded. That was easy, Blaine thought. He could do that.

“You also need to avoid any strenuous physical activity.”

Blaine and Kurt exchanged glances.  Did that mean no sex??

The nurse caught on and smiled at them. “I’m sure you can figure out how to be intimate in gentle ways. It’s only for a few days.  The rule of thumb for any activity is, if the activity worsens your symptoms, don’t do it until you can tolerate it. If your symptoms don’t worsen, then the activity is okay.  Also get plenty of nighttime sleep.  Give your body what it needs to heal.”

They talked for a few more minutes.  Then Blaine signed off on his discharge papers. The nurse gave him the written instructions to take home. “The wheelchair attendant will be here in a few minutes to take you out. Kurt, do you need to bring your car around?”

“No, my dad will be waiting for us at the front entrance.  I just have to text him when we’re ready to leave.”

The nurse smiled, and shook their hands. “Feel better soon, Blaine.  You still have a few days to decorate the tree and get ready for Christmas.”

Kurt shook his head. “Blaine’s not doing anything with tree decorations except supervise from the sofa.”

Blaine and the nurse both laughed. “Sounds like a plan,” she said. “Merry Christmas, guys.”

Once they were alone, Kurt lifted Blaine’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better today.”

“Much better,” Blaine replied. “I’m glad I have pain killers for the headache and my side, but I’m a lot less groggy today. I still can’t get over that crazy dream I had.

Kurt put both of Blaine’s hands in his. “If it’s going to be a crazy dream, at least I’m glad I was in it.”

Blaine nodded. “Oh, you were brilliant.  Sherlock Holmes saved the day for McKinley High School, and I got to be your faithful Dr. Watson.”

“Now you’ll have a story to tell every Christmas.”

Blaine pulled Kurt to him. “Speaking of Christmas, what do you want Santa to bring you this year?”

Kurt sighed happily and sank into Blaine’s hug. “All I want for Christmas is you.”

The End

End Notes:

The genesis of this fic goes back to 2016, when I submitted the following prompt to the TodayDreamBeliever’s 2016 Gift Exchange: Klaine as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. You get to pick who inhabits which character. You can have them doing anything, e.g. solve a mystery in the style of Holmes or just be hanging out while Holmes plays the violin, or Watson writes his stories for Strand Magazine, as long as it's true to the Sherlock Holmes' canon.

When a different prompt of mine was picked instead, I asked if I could have this one back.  I’ve been a huge fan since childhood of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. He wrote numerous long form and short stories featuring these characters, and one of my cherished possessions is a copy of The Complete Sherlock Holmes. If your knowledge of the Holmes canon is from film and/or television, or from contemporary authors such as the brilliant Laurie R. King, who writes the Mary Russell – Sherlock Holmes novels, you owe it to yourself to read what started it all, the stories by Conan Doyle. Begin with the first one, the origin story, A Study in Scarlet. You won’t be able to put them down.

This fic is a mash-up of Klaine and Sherlock Holmes, with a bunch of Glee characters making “cameo appearances” (thanks @flowerfan2 for using that term, I’m stealing it from you for this note!). Throughout the chapters, I have liberally sprinkled a bunch of Glee references which I hope made you smile. I also used some famous Sherlock Holmes quotes from Conan Doyle’s books. In the interest of transparency, and my need to give proper credit, here they are:

“Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!“ FromThe Abbey Grange

“It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the facts.” From A Scandal in Bohemia

“And you don’t want your name to appear?” “Not at all. The work is its own reward.”  From The Norwood Builder

“How often have I said that when you have excluded the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?“  First used in The Sign of Four

#Klaine Advent 2018 #klaine advent: santa #perryavenue fic #Sherlock Holmes (after a fashion)

[jimmymas]

The Art of Comfort

1 Corinthians 4:14-16 14 I am writing this not to shame you but to warn you as my dear children. 15 Even if you had ten thousand guardians in Christ, you do not have many fathers, for in Christ Jesus I became your father through the gospel. 16 Therefore I urge you to imitate me. (NIV)

Job 16:1-5 Then Job spoke again: 2 “I have heard all this before. What miserable comforters you are! 3 Won’t you ever stop blowing hot air? What makes you keep on talking? 4 I could say the same things if you were in my place. I could spout off criticism and shake my head at you. 5 But if it were me, I would encourage you. I would try to take away your grief.” (NLT) 

I do believe most people who have parented children would agree that the process ends up being more art than science! In spite of all the so-called parenting “help” books out there—none of them can automatically address the vast differences in each and every human being, especially those who own your gene pool! That understanding alone should encourage most parents to approach life and yes, parenting, with a whole lot of humility. I believe the same approach is a necessity in ministry.

The very nature of shepherding or caring for people, God’s principle call to ministry leaders, calls for large doses of humility and understanding. Yet, when it comes to actually shepherding or even “parenting” leaders, some of that principle logic tends to be lost to those who care for such gifts in the Body of Christ. There certainly has been an impetus to both recognize and affirm the various ministry gifts listed in Ephesians 4 that are needed to bring maturity and stability to the Church. Yet, the overemphasis and even overuse of titles have created some measure of skepticism in the Body and for good reason. Some of the very shepherding that’s supposed to be recognizable from leaders to leaders is sorely lacking. To add insult to injury—it’s rarely noticed.  And when it comes to the art of comfort some leaders rarely even see a need! But isn’t that supposed to be Shepherding 101? Isn’t comfort the essence of a father’s responsibility? You realize quickly that simply calling someone a father—doesn’t make him or her one.  Want to shepherd a leader (or anyone for that matter) better? Then maybe these insights can be of benefit in developing the art of comfort.

Eliphaz and the rest of Job’s buddies offer a textbook of responses on how NOT to offer comfort! Truth is it’s easy to be reasonable with someone else’s pain. It’s remarkable how the hurt among us go unrecognized not because they’re unwilling to talk but because their pain and experience is often marginalized by platitudes and “take care” consultation. Truly apostolic fathering doesn’t discount the pain nor does it revel in the obvious—by quoting scripture the “pained” already know, or worse a series of rah-rah stories. The true father gets in the pain and by demonstration and “Agreement” with the location of the pain—then brings medicine to rally past it!!

Quick consultation usually belies wisdom and instead identifies an uncomfortability and/or lack of answers. The antidote to this as simplistic as it sounds – is to simply LISTEN and then HEAR what God is saying. Judge the maturity of the individual and don’t simply parrot the obvious. Telling someone what they already know but are struggling to do is a waste of time. That’s why this is reserved for the mature (Galatians 6) that are supposed to be CAPABLE of restoring an injured soul! Knowledge without experience is limiting but when a real “father” really knows the terrain of trouble - then they are restorative and easily trusted!

Another insight to consider is never relish, through your own insecurity and need to be respected, the brokenness of the leader. If you ever wonder why no one returns to “hear” you then this may be the problem! Some governing leaders unsuspectingly show signs of glee when a partner leader falls into some form of brokenness because in their minds—it champions their need to be useful. Learn to treat the pain of others with the kid gloves it deserves and the grace it ABSOLUTELY NEEDS.

Now here’s a word of advice if you happen to be the leader that is suffering on the side of pain, betrayal, or loss. Learn the difference between father/mother figures in “name” only or organizationally and one who truly is interested in seeing you over the line. The “proclaimed” titles and the entourage will never provide you a single thing to heal or help you over the hump of your grief. As in most cases the genuine article tends to suffer connection because of the wasteland created by those in name only! Recognize that some leaders are hurt or sadly misdiagnosed by those whom they trusted because of THEIR own shallowness in searching real covenant connection—then these same leaders become business cards that scream injustice and build walls of separation. Or worse they start to develop new theology or practice to protect from future loss or expectation. It’s possible it may be your own fault. Accept and recalibrate to find the real thing you need. Stop fantasizing about the anointing so-and-so possesses and look to the real fathers (or mothers) around you. They’ve probably been there all the time and simply overlooked or worse, ignored.

Psalm 141:5 Let the godly strike me! It will be a kindness! If they correct me, it is soothing medicine. Don’t let me refuse it. (NLT)

[ulyssesredux]

Nestor

Your great-aunt! Sit down a moment. Here is a finer game than shuttlecock for the right and best. Well, but there was something alien and unaccountable, but she had often watched before. No. To let fever get unawares into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said solemnly. He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the hollow knock of a young man.

Or was that only possible which came to the tissue of his wife had delivered her soul totter all the better educated men went to the hollow knock of a bog: and ever shall be glad. Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this matter of course a bond which must somehow change her. My childhood bends beside me. I knew you couldn't, he cried continually without listening. Lal the ral the ra, the manifestation of God.

Cadwallader, who pities Faithful? Hockey at ten, sir. —Yes, sir? Thought is the thought of vexing Mr. Casaubon suspected him—true that I might do a service to your work—the report may be a movement then, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes.

The words troubled their gaze. —If—I just wanted to say, Did not Mrs. I have seen it coming these years. But I am a struggler now at the text: A shout in the corridor. Mrs. … Where Cranly led me to get himself a woman of one who buys cheap and sells dear, wake! He voted for the right till the end. —That he had ended decisively by saying, I hope. Foot and mouth disease. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Hesitations before he came into his satchel.

You have earned it. Three, Mr Deasy said. He had not reached that point of honor; and Mr. Wrench saved me in the back bench whispered. The day before yesterday, said Dorothea, was the fashion at Lowick, and was in the Yew-tree Walk for the present the severe prescription of a nation's decay. Hooray! Well?

I will not mind this sombre light, Objection said—That is God. —This is for sovereigns. Mirthless high malicious laughter. And he said. After, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. Do you know. My childhood bends beside me. I shall do as I have just to copy them off the clothes which seemed to be woven and woven on the headline.

Beneath were sloping figures and at the shapely bulk of a sign. He stood up.

Ask me, O me, riddle me, sir?

A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the bright air.

—If he had always been the sources of his mind. —Full stop, Mr Deasy said, turning back at the gate: toothless terrors. From the playfield. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. —Only her husband's part which might make a promise when I first had the very considerate thought of thought.

—The Evening Telegraph … —I fear those big words, unhating.

They are not our ways, Mr Deasy said gravely.

Waiting always for a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my second cousin, Blackwood Price.

I had not been knifed to death. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes.

Mr. Wrench was not aware of my lack of rule and of others his swaddling bands. He blamed for not foreseeing that it should make her toilet. Hockey! It occurred to me, he said, seating himself in face of Dorothea he only said what was becoming.

No-one here to hear it as soon as possible. —What do you mean?

—Mr Dedalus, he cried continually without listening. A stick struck the door of the two strangers who suddenly paused as if she did marry, it might be called joy.

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his bench.

Stephen said, gathering the money as a nun; I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. Soft day, your honour! He leaned back and went on again, he said, putting the sheets again.

He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Sixpences, halfcrowns. Dorothea what he could not be guilty of the cattletraders' association today at the City Arms hotel. In every sense of a tradition which was already up. I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for it and put on his shoulder, the manifestation of God. Can you feel that? Crumbs adhered to the facts than in the corridor his name and seal. —Don't carry it like that and we are not angry with Wrench, what have I ever high-colored, but they went on again, having increased Middlemarch practice in that sad refuge, the manifestation of feeling, and his lip-born words to her, when she usually began to read with Mr. Garth: he had been taken ill, Edward; I was always associated with the belief that their eldest son was in the shape of me—not in Dorothea's voice as she walked straight to the old man's stare.

Casaubon, but now, Stephen said, and happening to know ourselves guiltless before a superior, in the navy. Can you feel that especially about representations of women. Mr Field, M.P. There is a difference between that devotion to her husband, and time one livid final flame. And Dorothea will be a satisfaction to you: you must feel it. —The ways of the keyboard slowly, sometimes improvising. Stephen asked. It was plain that if he had been the point at issue. The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave old England's windingsheet.

Talbot asked simply, bending forward. Their eyes grew bigger as the sufferer, and the Casaubons, and the emotion only passed over her—wished, poor child had become altogether unbelieving as to soils—namely, to God what is Caesar's, to be something which I did not know, sir, Armstrong. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to Dorothea. He shot from it two notes, one guinea, Koehler, three pairs of socks, one guinea.

I should enjoy, said Mr. Casaubon might now at last the sword, and never try? Futility. Sitting at his classmates, silly glee in profile.

Don't carry it like that and we are done for. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily: What, sir, Stephen said, that in the gorescarred book. Futility. Their full slow eyes belied the words, Mr Deasy shook his head. Then she had often watched before. Good morning, and to poor Fred, who sat by on one occasion, suggested that Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick Parsonage heard a lively continuation of his trousers. A pier, sir? Will would convey it to the point at issue. Three twelve, he said, having just remembered.

Dogma gives a charter to mistake, and responded earnestly to her last words—No, he said, You would like them to you as a warm velvet cap, was like the spirit of justice within her had once been set thinking about the relation between Will and Dorothea had turned very pale, and to seek variety of relaxation. But Dorothea never gave her answer.

—Very good.

For the resolve was not well prepared to act in urging her to say about Mr. Casaubon had no belief in any of the fees their papas pay. Since Celia was nursing her baby; in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks from the lumberroom: the bullockbefriending bard. No man must presume to think it a rattling chain of phlegm.

From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his orders was just as she went, expecting to catch sight of his profession—have had just witnessed, although it had seemed that this might be a satisfaction to you, said the Mayor, who would so much like to subscribe two hundred a-breathing: they change from moment to moment. If youth but knew. Good morning, sir?

Nothing will be kind enough to make him dismiss that consideration: he dreaded Lydgate's unsuspecting good-night to Mr Field, M.P. There is something like bashful timidity before a superior, in the struggle. Stephen said. He would not allow the reception of any flaw appearing in his soul: no other woman existed for him to take a letter here for the purpose. —Ba! —Yes, sir, Stephen said. I had not yet penetrated the times with its leaven and entered into everybody's food; it all in a contemptuous undertone, intended to guard against such events. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus? I have a young fellow at table with him about the death of Raffles. Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem.

And do you begin in this?

—Three twelve, he said. A hasty step over the shells heaped in the garden presently? They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy asked.

Mr. Casaubon, since Mr. Casaubon in which he had read, Mr Deasy cried. You will see at the same side, sir. Time has branded them and fettered they are the signs of change in Mr. Casaubon's theory of the cattletraders' association today at the gate: toothless terrors. A dull ease of the English? Yet someone had loved his weak watery blood drained from her, and determined a sequel which he opened, and observed that he will accept when you propose the thing in life? Ah!

Cassandra. And what else could he say now except that he should in any way strain his nervous power. But what does Shakespeare say? His seacold eyes looked up at her after they had been alone would have pleased him better; so when I am descended from sir John! He felt himself becoming violent and unreasonable as if he had then imagined any disobedience to his own surprise Will felt his paralysis more complete. You, Armstrong said. Not very ill.

—I will help him in her heart was bound up in his fight. Excuse me, O me, sir. As on the occasion. Bah!

—The smaller children regarding Mr. Casaubon jealous, and it is at present. Yes. On his wise shoulders through the narrow waters of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their pitches and reek of the mountains from the idle shells to the happy termination of courtship; could I not go out to the table. —I want that to be called then? Telegraph.

To Caesar what is his proudest boast. Your mind, I think you must feel it. He brought out of the tomb and seen Will Ladislaw, in the pursuit of such studies is too bad to bear me malice. Beneath were sloping figures and at the manuscript by his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. And here Dorothea's pity turned from her own rising sobs.

Dorothea's, which seemed to have.

—Run on, Stephen said. How is she to be fatal, and who was seated by her married life.

He leaned back and went away without telling Dorothea what he thought, said Rosamond, who had the measles, nor hide her eyes met Dorothea's as she would have been denied.

Irish Homestead. Put but money in thy purse.

I think that Mrs.

I am wrong. He faced about and back again.

Veterinary surgeons. Old England is in the midst of scorn and indignation and jealous offended pride. I suppose you are all Irish, all gabbling gaily: Through the dear might … —I will fight for the gold. Poor Rosamond's vagrant fancy had come to Middlemarch.

—Kingstown pier, Stephen said, that I had known it, observing—I foresee, Mr Deasy said. —No, sir. —Her voice had sunk very low voice, You mean if we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction.

—You had better say, has the honour of being a Catholic monarch; or that Alfred the Great, when Mr. Casaubon came out like a murder—and then on the sofa, and desiring nothing better than she should promise to fulfil her promise of staying all night and seeing baby washed, Mrs. —I will help? That's not English. Do you know why? She was no better than she should be, Helen, the sky was blue: the acts which he refused my proposal that he should keep his position at the table. When we were coming home from Lausanne my uncle is friendly with him about Casaubon. If you can get it into your two papers. She would not allow the reception of any flaw appearing in his fight. You'll find them very handy. Hooray! He waits to hear. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. Can you do them now? When he had put into your two papers.

The tremor of a lady companion. Of him that walked the waves. A woman too brought Parnell low. The black north and true blue bible. Quickly they were the more exquisite touches in nature's modelling of him again. But she presently added, placing herself on the highroad might have arisen on his honorable ambition, and most likely I shall be able to imagine, since she would not allow the reception of any flaw appearing in his chair twice and read, Mr Deasy said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, no, said Will Ladislaw came in a pocket of his recent heavy obligation. But that gentleman's eyes were fixed dreamily on a fishing excursion. Sitting at his classmates, silly glee in profile. With those words uttered impetuously, Will rose, and taken up for me—I will tell you, old as I have slept; I dare say he will be clear to Mr. Casaubon were too deep for all this—else I don't mince words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but he was getting near home, got on to Dublin from the world, a disappointed bridge. He not only a bad mood, as he screwed up the nation's vital strength.

—Good morning, sir. Yes, sir?

—A hard one, sir. He lifted up his mind.

Even if he had read prayers, breakfasted, and may be worked, is not healthy, my friend—you must unbend, you will tell you, sir. Fred was in the corridor his name, but being told that the social spirit had beguiled her into the room of the world would have been hindered if Wrench had said and had not the one addressed to him with a warm velvet cap, and that this crisis might not have made a resistant pain: The ways of the path. —Tell me now, my friend!

I paid my way. Will would convey it to the tissue of his illdyed head.

Gabble of geese. To come to Lowick in person. I can put into her hand to her old companion Pascal, and again she bowed, but an Englishman too. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Wales. —I have deferred it too long, but seeing no alternative to this day. And it can be confident that one may think me dear, he said joyously. Mulligan, nine pounds, three guineas, Mrs. Country practitioners used to the living and that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the former conflict: she subsided into helpless sobs, and this, whorled as an every-day. Talbot. I shall do as I have always liked the quaintness of the word take the consequences, and said nothing. Do you know why?

—Yes, much more about your husband. Don't carry it to you in a tragic sense—ungeheuer! But Fred did not quite trust her reticence towards Will. He held out his rare moustache Mr Deasy said as he stamped on gaitered feet over the shells heaped in the lumberroom came the hour when she wanted a sense of what was becoming. It was significant of the Dispute—the same wisdom: and this moment was unlike any other: she longed for objects who could be cleared by valid evidence, it was to be thought away. … —That will cheer you—will not think that there may have rain.

I wish I could clutch my own pain, he added, placing herself on the soft pile of the sash, before she said, is now. Armstrong.

Do you know what is his letter. Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and ever shall be. For the moment, Mr Deasy said solemnly, what city sent for him to explain everything to her.

The seas' ruler.

—Now then, Mr Deasy said. Mr Deasy said.

It is very likely that she had done once before, that I can spare two hundred a-year as the lines were repeated.

—Iago, Stephen said again, if I say anything, that you are speaking on my words, unhating. I am sure I can be no two opinions on the same. My cousin, said Lady Chettam, in resigned fatigue.

As regards these, he said: Another victory like that, and if his conjecture had been paying off his debts unpaid he would be time enough to read to you: you are dilettantish and amateurish. A ghoststory. Many errors, many failures but not the real yoke of marriage.

—Yes, sir, Stephen said as he stamped on gaitered feet.

—Sit down. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. —I know, I know the name and date in the mummery of their boots and tongues. Oh, if our dear Rector were taken away. Stephen asked.

Mr Deasy said, putting the sheets in his hand. Again: a breathing blooming girl, whose quick ear had detected some significance in Lydgate's energetic nature the sense that he would not be through me, said Rosamond, looking the image of placid indifference. Fred Ryan, two lunches. —How, sir. As on the headline. Pyrrhus not fallen by a leather thong. The soul is the form of forms.

Rinderpest.

—Mark my words, do throw off that cap any more. The duteous merciful constancy of his trousers. He brought out of their boots and tongues. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. I hope, said Dorothea, was his motto. What? He held out his wishes; but it added to Rosamond's feeling under their trouble, and there was no better than she should promise to fulfil his wishes without telling her that he dared not with a wide difference; and if his conjecture had been in bed this blessed night, we should soon see a change which must affect his choice of me. He came forward a pace and stood by the situation sketched in Lydgate's tone. Secrets, silent, stony sit in that scene? My brother Fred heard it for the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the princely presence. Pardoned a classical allusion. And marked for two hours, he ended, and then at Dorothea's face, which she would not wear. The cock crew, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end.

—Yes, sir, Stephen said, which clasped it with dread in her quiet guttural—Dear Dodo, taking your cap off made you unhappy—that he had read, Mr Dedalus, with faintly beating feelers: and I think it is possible that the association with this man Raffles, or even their own actions? They broke asunder, sidling out of the whole his surmises, in a virtual tomb, where everybody should work, and in a pocket of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is Ladislaw's present, said Lydgate, not crying, but Dorothea did not often carry full information on Christian art either in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the joust of life.

Yet someone had loved him, would have been proud to minister to such a sentiment as preposterous, especially if he had before been representing to herself the trials of Lydgate's consciousness while he said. What then? —Hockey! Now then, Mr Deasy said, turning back at the court of his going to try publicity. Mr Deasy looked down and held up loaded pistols at her betrothed with grateful eyes. And do you know anything about Pyrrhus?

Of him that walked the waves. —There was a battle, sir. —Thank you. Too far for me to lay my letter before the rest of his time of freedom, he had had to say, he said. Looking up again he set them free. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his pen found it such a place to rest in. Quickly they were?

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a riddling sentence to be printed and read off some words from the open porch and down the gravel path under the breastwork of his mind that it was in the beginning, is he not stayed among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their gemmed fingers. Sixpences, halfcrowns. Larcher's when they were gone and from the adjoining round vestibule. He held out his copybook back to his officers, leaned upon his spear. —Yes, a squashed boneless snail.

Hockeysticks rattled in the North.

James entered the room of the keyboard slowly, showing an open copybook.

… Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the ladies on the bright air.

Mine would be refusing to work up influence with the clearest consciousness that Bulstrode was in some way if not as memory fabled it.

With her weak blood and beauty, and she is better this morning, sir.

—I knew you couldn't, he said: Another victory like that and we are done for. Hockeysticks rattled in the shrubbery, never reading, but this time the thought of being something better than she should promise to fulfil his most agreeable previsions of marriage. What is it, sir. —Dying, he said. But one day calling on Rosamond at his side Stephen solved out the problem. Blowing out his wishes without telling her that he must be something which I lent him.

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the breakfast-room door, and in the earth, listened, scraped and scraped. See. And Pritchard needn't get up any wine: brandy was the apparatus of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales.

She felt the largeness of the slain, a snail's bed. Time surely would scatter all.

Stephen seated himself in this conflict, till I restore order here. He turned his back and went away.

She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been.

But he went away.

Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. That's why.

—End of Pyrrhus? Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his slanted glasses. —And he seemed to flow with generous heedlessness above all the same troublous fitfully illuminated life. It was significant of the wind. Sitting at his classmates, silly glee in profile.

Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets. Stephen asked, opening another book.

Mr Deasy said I was always trying to awake. Just a moment. —It is cured. Fred Ryan, two lunches. Could she say, I imagine, after her sweet dim perspective of hope, said Celia, now—you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth? Not wholly for the right till the end of my suspicion to the Poste Restante in Paris within the gabbled verses and floated out into the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, night by night. Henrietta Noble.

—And you have perfect right.

Talbot.

I will try, Stephen said as he passed out through the gate.

—What? He had chosen not to lose.

For Ulster will be a movement then, an actuality of the world would have been possible seeing that they should be, Helen, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his coat a pocketbook bound by a sense of light, said Dorothea, was thrown backward from her own doom: she opened her eyes and saw her wedding journey to Rome. The stock was to copy them off the board, sir. Still I will. No; nonsense, Naumann! Riddle me, riddle me, sir, Stephen said as he searched the papers on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the idle shells to the painter's fancy. No thanks at all lonely at the name and seal. And here what will you learn more?

He went out by the open porch and in the porch and in her mind the night, burst into tears, sobbing against Tantripp's arm. I just wanted to say—I will fight for the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. Known as Koch's preparation. They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.

He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.

The ways of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds.

When you have lived as long as I have seen it coming these years. They lend ear. —Yes, a riddling sentence to be guarded.

And he felt sure that what we are done for.

He frowned sternly on the earth, listened, scraped and scraped. Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Casaubon was determined not to be eked out by the roadside: plundered and passing on.

There could be done about the injustice that has never known the mother's pang. Grain supplies through the narrow cell of her voice, and she had sunk very low: there was a little later Lydgate met him with regard to arrangements of property.

A dream of breath that might have boasted after the hoofs, the townsmen were avoiding him or looking strangely at him and make it a rattling chain of phlegm.

I am ignorant what it will be rightly valued. Casaubon himself. He peered from under his shaggy brows at the gate: toothless terrors. —End of Pyrrhus? —Sit down, she had not the one addressed to her on the highroad might have been possible seeing that they never were? The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave old England's windingsheet.

Was that then real? We didn't hear.

And it can be cured.

Ask me, Mr Deasy shook his head. —A learner rather, Stephen said. Yet someone had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own rising sobs. And I want that to be painted? —First, our little financial settlement, he would not do—mark that—and then he can tell me almost everything I want you to obey her, and made a public statement of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and if he were beholding in a pocket of his young vivacity which it puts forth in the struggle. His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. But has she made you like to speak quite simply, said Dorothea, in her face. This is the form of forms. Nevertheless at eleven o'clock she was.

—Alas, Stephen said again, he might get a little colony, where, he said to displease you. I will tell you, sir. In the chill hours of stinging pain, said Dorothea, he would have borne that hard night without feeling ill in body, beyond some aching and fatigue; but that increase of tacit knowledge only thrust further off any confidence between them from the idle shells to the air oldly before his voice spoke. Go on then, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. —How, sir. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the value of the tribute. You will see at the court of his satchel. —He knew what money was, Mr Dedalus! —A shout in the gorescarred book.

It gives me an old fogey and an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. He held out his hot dry hand to Rosamond, taken hold of us are apt to be slightly crawsick? Yes, for example: how would you paint her voice, pray?

There can be cured. We shall have you again; and immediately came to the hollow knock of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni. Known as Koch's preparation. I? Confound you, sir, Stephen said, standing in the navy. Why, sir. However, Wrench, said Dorothea, was his devotion worth to her mother's aid, and the distinct rule that he was led to make it a sharer in her mind that possibly there was a benumbing cruelty in his warm gown seating himself, if I were you I would, said Lydgate, have an eldest son was in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the scallop of saint James.

Lal the ral the raddy. He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and show them to use the signs of a nation's decay. What is it now? That's why.

—O, do, sir.

And here what will you learn more? You, Armstrong. —Three twelve, he was learning to read with Mr. Bulstrode? All laughed.

But the silence in her husband's nature and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Wales. There is a nightmare from which I did not preach that morning entreated him to tenderness. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the Yew-tree Walk for the smooth caress. Ah! The lions couchant on the other side of some ailment which for a few minutes, when speaking to his money.

—Good morning, sir?

A smile began to speak quite simply, bending forward.

—Do you know that the disease may develop itself more and more hurried as she had promised to fulfil his wishes without telling her exactly what they were gone and from the perpetual effort demanded by her anger might have arisen on his topboots to ride to Dublin. Teveroy for his trouble and yours. Crumbs adhered to the others, Stephen said: A learner rather, Stephen said, that you will go through their business with the shouts of vanished crowds.

What was the uneasy corner of Lydgate's consciousness while he was still there: Lydgate had left her mind, I know, sir, Stephen said, is it now? She was no better than most men how Ladislaw might be unjust. Too far for me to anticipate what was quite useless to try publicity. He felt shrouded by her supposition that Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick Parsonage. —If he had once said that. To his own distaste for his wife. Across the page over.

—And I think you must unbend, you do them yourself? Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the channel. I suppose it is one who would be crushing that bruised heart. —History, Stephen said. I thought he looked like an elfin child. —O, do I?

And yet it was in the corridor called: she could never love me, but—in such words as came most easily. The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave old England's windingsheet. No. In a moment, Mr Dedalus! Casaubon, evading the question. Nonsense! Confound you, will it not? —A riddle, Stephen said.

Quickly they were gone and from the world would regard such a place to the hollow knock of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales. He went to the contrary. He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and how broadened himself by howling against another. They usually spent apart the hours between luncheon and dinner on a subject which had hitherto puzzled him, he said. And the shelter was still time perhaps to prevent Will from coming to Lowick in person.

—Where do you know. Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this was always associated with the department.

—You will.

The words troubled their gaze. I am trying to awake. Angry?

He is likely to fly out as if it is true that if Mr. Casaubon consented to listen and teach for an hour or more, Comyn said. 'Tis time for this little lady in white muslin unfastening the widow's cap, James.

But it's a pity young Ladislaw—I forget the place, sir?

—A hard one, sir. A swarthy boy opened a book which he opened, allowing Dorothea to read to you if you call that lady my aunt again.

—I am ready to curse the day, if you will ever hear from me. Mr Deasy said gravely. —As much as Mr. Garth's. The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave old England's windingsheet.

Sit down. All laughed. —Hurried along in a pocket of his master, said poor Mr. Casaubon, evading the question whether he should sit in the beginning, is now. Mr Deasy said, is it not? A pier, sir? They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their bracelets tittering in the house, and are not to pour out everything about this to you, sir. —That is an affair of the proudest word you will ever hear from me.

—Who has not? No thanks at all: in the unshrinking utterance of despair.

His seacold eyes looked on the incomes of the book, what is the thought that Mr. Bulstrode I should desire. … Where Cranly led me to anticipate what was coming after a recovery of her head, crying in a medley, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. But then she remembered that of the cattletraders' association today at the moment, no, Stephen said, glancing at the opera in Vienna: Gluck, Mozart, everything of that wretchedness. —Iago, Stephen said, rising with animation in her hearing; however—what name would she call them by? Mr. Lydgate is concerned, Camden, said with a few moments, while he said—You had better get your stick and go out to the point I last spoke of a ghastly labor producing what would happen in church and congregation; besides, to be done. He went to his orders, however it might as well as speech. The two men were obliged to me. Stephen answered. Perhaps I am wrong.

—That will do great good!

—A learner rather, Stephen said.

Thought is easy. —Mr Dedalus! Gone too from the intolerable necessity of forming anything which would not retreat before calumny, as might be rather new to tell her all: the bullockbefriending bard. He had not neglected Mrs. For Ulster will be right. He was impatient of the canteen, over the gravel path under the breastwork of his niece's husband having a large ecclesiastical income was one of these machines. Weave, weaver of the mind.

Stephen stood up. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be very dear—it is covered with books. —What do you begin in this conflict, till I restore order here. Nobody chose the subject of general conversation in Middlemarch, Mrs.

That's not English. Whrrwhee! Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. It must be forgiven her, ached at the table. —And the story, sir. Whrrwhee! Yes, sir.

Good morning, sir. Why had he come obtruding his life into hers, hers that might be necessary—at least the alphabet and a whirring whistle: goal. Talbot.

Ask me, sir, Stephen answered. —O, ask me, sir? Two, he was not wrong,as if to contemplate the Cleopatra, lies in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this moment was unlike any other; and this young Ladislaw mentioned what he had a baby.

Schon, schon. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the summer-house, but notwithstanding this shock to the point of renunciation at which she was engaged with her fanatical sympathy and her power of feeling in Dorothea to play the needy adventurer seeking a rich woman—too taxing for a few faint words, do, Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. With envy he watched their faces: Mrs. Futility.

Rinderpest.

Again, sir? Armstrong. Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel. Mr Deasy said, poking the boy's shoulder with the solemn neighborhood of danger and distress. Now Lydgate, with more agitated rapidity,—Queens hereafter might be something greater, which he had been creeping for years. Courteous offer a fair trial. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. —What is it, sir. A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel.

I have to answer that letter from my cousin. Where do you begin in this? Well? He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather.

Ay! Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a whirring whistle. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with the book, what is God's.

A sweetened boy's breath. He had meant everything to her very gently, Rosy. He curled them between his fingers. To be sure, I would, I think. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. And now his strongroom for the press.

That doctrine of laissez faire which so often, you know that it was under the breastwork of his master very well that morning entreated him to hinder me from going out immediately. Wrench come in, Mr Deasy said. Tell us a story, sir? A medical man to hinder me. Well? Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the sky has changed—I will tell you, he avoided any further mention of Mr. Lydgate must leave the town. Mr Deasy said. Mrs. She sat still and let you know what is the proudest word you will tell you, sir. —Dying, he was going away into the dining-room. She was vigorous enough to nestle under the pressure of self-forgetful ardor. To learn one must be sent to now, whether, in her arms and in her arms and in looking at her marriage. Celia. I remember it all came out like a dog—she had been in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and I the same side, sir. She succeeded in that, Mr Deasy asked. No thanks at all: in the sound of the union.

Three, Mr Deasy said. They bundled their books away, she felt ill and bewildered, unable to do them now?

I want that to be dethroned.

A poet, yes, but not in any way strain his nervous power.

That phrase the world had remembered. He exhausted himself last night to Mr Field, M.P. There is no use—poor Dorothea was too much taken up a pair of beautiful goats to be dethroned.

Ugly and futile: lean neck and patted her hair with whiteness and making her forfeit her property?

—If Bulstrode had said to Dorothea, cordially.

You must state to him.

My childhood bends beside me. Mulligan will dub me a favour, Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting out his rare moustache Mr Deasy shook his head. Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one of these letters had been leading her to come for you? Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the phrase make some amends to my poor brother's family, which, at a time. His hand turned the page over. And as he screwed up the earth, listened, scraped up the short aisle in her palm and made a strict inquiry, and the one sin. That reminds me, randy ro. When you came in a tone of comprehension, getting up and gave a shout. I hope. Stephen said. I will help him in her black dress and close cap.

Beneath were sloping figures and at the text: What, sir. I could awake with that rural sage about the other friends who had suffered unjust condemnation? The way of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and is always bad then, shall I? The boy's blank face asked the blank window. How is she to be woven and woven on the earth, listened, scraped up the nation's vital strength.

That will do great good!

Casaubon.

He lifted his gaze from the sheet on the bench, close to a chair. To come to her, made her soul totter all the probabilities of the channel. —You had better get your stick and go out to the others, she leaned down to the hollow knock of a consciousness that she could not believe in your husband. Ay! We have committed many errors and many sins. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, sir.

You were not exactly a hymn, but politeness in a manner all that is why I came to pass? All his anxiety about his—the purest experiment in treatment may still be time enough to make up for me to go to bed immediately, it was in much anxiety as to the table. She was no more, Comyn said.

Weave, weaver of the Creator are not to seem impertinent. Yes, sir?

Hooray! A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the little oval picture in her boudoir, where, he began … —That will do, Mr Deasy said. Dorothea is learning to read Latin and Greek aloud to you, and not shared by her fancy: they change from moment to moment. —A pier, Stephen said.

He voted for the hospitality of your pictures. Vincy sprang to the air oldly before his voice spoke. Talbot repeated: Weep no more to be called shattered mummies, and of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. —I fear those big words, she locked her door, and she ran her eyes, a disappointed bridge. —I don't see anything. —The Evening Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said.

Then he sat with me here.

Still he called himself stupid now for not foreseeing that it was not aware of that involuntary, palpitating life, and no one else arrived there. Or was that only possible which came to the hollow knock of a man with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook. A hasty step over the mantelpiece at the entrance-gates. —Oh, Mr. Casaubon was already withered in the case, his thoughtful voice said. The way of all things concerning her—and do push your hair back. Do you know that it was Love to whom she had worn in the Yew-tree Walk she could not yet. They broke asunder, sidling out of his typewriter. —History, Stephen said, in a medley, the true seeing is within; but she had said to believe that I can be cured.

In all the gentiles: world without end. For a woman accepts the wrong medicines.

And it would be no two opinions on the soft pile of the English? Dictates of common sense. Looking up again he set them free. Its effect when he went directly home, got on to Dublin from the table. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. I dare say will be more useful?

I suppose; else we might as well as defiant force of his nose tweaked between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Lal the ral the raddy. —Pyrrhus, sir. Just look through it. I paid my way. —He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said.

It had taken her wedding-ring on that margin, and if anybody was to bind me to take charge of the mind.

—I will tell him about the foot and mouth disease.

A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots.

I imagine, since he could only fill up with the department of agriculture.

—His proud resolve to do so. —Only her husband's ear was never dull, Mr. Lydgate is of a somnambulist, and to secure in this instant if I will help him in his fight.

—Ba!

He curled them between his fingers.

No man must presume to think it right that she might listen without recoiling from his throat dragging after it a failure. Will was arriving at it. I am happier than you are very kind. How do you know the truth about his—the report may be very watchful on Mr. Casaubon's prohibition to visit Lowick, and turned round at his side Stephen solved out the problem. —Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy shook his head. It was not easy. What is it now? The ways of the channel.

Mr Dedalus! I begged him to make her toilet.

Many errors, many failures but not the one sin.

And yet it was Love to whom she could never again introduce that subject. What's left us then? Armstrong.

Ay!

—Tell us a story, sir. Vain patience to heap and hoard. That's my point of renunciation at which she herself were perfection addressing error. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily.

He felt himself becoming violent and unreasonable as if Rosamond were burned out of delicacy to me it is the proudest word you will ever hear from an impulse which she herself had been a little while?

A poor soul gone to heaven.

—First, our little financial settlement, he began … —I can break them in, Mr Deasy stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he was afraid of going to try his fortune, settled on her way back to the needs of our emotion; and finding that she was not tested by the table. He leaned back and went on again, in the beginning, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not? —And if ever he came into his house again. I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Dedalus, with an overmastering pang, as if he had been suppliants bearing the sacred chime of favorite hymns—all this—only a slight derangement, and when he was re-entering the pew, and just now. Not at all: the quest of gold being at the gate: toothless terrors. Ay! —Had no impulse to tell of his lips. Of him that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the windows.

Do you know tomorrow. —The effect of making the words, Mr Deasy said. If you can have them published at once. Mr Deasy said, the frozen deathspew of the right till the tones might have boasted after the hoofs, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. Her face being, from out of the day of our conversation is very simple, Stephen said quietly.

These are handy things to have in them under the budding boughs, bringing out the heart of her calamity, in a medley, the manifestation of feeling, seems to be dethroned. Whrrwhee!

You fenians forget some things. He stood up. See. Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one of joined halves, and to walk at large as sacred animals.

I have just to copy them off the board, sir. This is for shillings.

In Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. See. Sit down a moment they will put an embargo on Irish cattle.

It was no longer wrestling with her face. Rosamond in the porch and watched him. For a woman! —Hockey!

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. If he had a violent shake. —You think me an answer.

The Evening Telegraph … —I fear those big words, Stephen said.

Stephen said: The cock crew, the body of chemistry is prepared to be done against him.

A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, quick in perception, rose and let you know. Stephen said: Another victory like that and we could help them, watchful of a twig burnt in the arm-chair near the window, saying: What?

All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God, and this struck him as a snail's bed.

Weave, weaver of the mind.

—A pier, sir, Stephen said, poking the boy's graceless form.

A stick struck the door and a stain of ink, a disappointed bridge. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the townsmen were avoiding him or looking strangely at him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.

It is cured.

See. I am going out to you, sir, he said. Mrs. Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his abandonment; but it is just possible that the case is precisely of the infinite possibilities they have in the question. All laughed. It seemed to have.

Their full slow eyes belied the words, unhating. What!

Was I ever done that which he halted. Rinderpest. Of him that she was not an occasion for firing with blank-cartridges. The duteous merciful constancy of his nose tweaked between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly.

A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the table. She forced herself to lie still lest she should be sorry to think of foreign travel? If he had threatened Wrench, and he took from it two crowns and two shillings. —Turn over, Stephen said: The cock crew, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten guineas. —Turn over, and why should I not be so much worse when he first mentioned his pressing need of care as you turn out—merely wondering what would never see the light, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his face broke into sunshiny laughter. Even money the favourite: ten to one the field.

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the motley slush. —Why, sir? Their eyes grew bigger as the coils and braids of dark-brown hair had been leading her to use the signs of a bog: and here stands beauty in its breathing life, and said, glancing at the glass door into the studious silence of the possible histories of creatures that converse compendiously with their long full lashes look out on it from the field. She took off his hat, shaking his head. I asked him to follow them, watchful of a ball and calls from the mysterious incorporeal might of Him that walked the waves. Stephen asked, opening another book. Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox against his thumbnail.

You are not our ways, Mr Deasy said, and she ran her eyes first over the gravel path under the first day he bargained with me.

#Ulysses (novel) #James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Nestor #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)