Dog Days Are Over Quotes

Leave all your love and your longing behind, you can't carry it with you if you want to survive. ~ Florence Welch And Isabella Summers

It's not that we don't trust you," Royce said as Hadrian prepared the bow. "It's just that we've learned over the years that honor among nobles is usually inversely proportionate to their rank. As a result, we prefer to rely on more concrete methods for motivations - such as self-preservation. You already know we don't want you dead, but if you have ever been riding full tilt and had a horse buckle under you, you understand that death is always a possibility, and broken bones are almost a certainty."
"There's also the danger of missing the horse completely," Hadrian added. "I'm a good shot, but even the best archers have bad days. So to answer your question - yes, you can control your own horse. ~ Michael J. Sullivan

I thought that if I couldn't make a living as an artist, at least I shouldn't starve.

By the time I had finished these studies, I had realized that I simply did not draw well enough to be the kind of artist and illustrator that I wanted to be, and so for two days a week over two years I drew - and drew and drew - from the models in the life classes at Chelsea School of Art. I really found out how people looked and moved and balanced, and though nowadays I almost never use a sketchbook and just make everything up as I go along, it's those days in the life room that are the back of it all. ~ Quentin Blake

My smile lights up a million stars always. I create beauty with my hands and I radiate beauty from within. I make a fashion statement wherever I go and I always see beauty wherever I go. Life is an experience that brings out the best in me. I triumph when my days are blue because I know my next experience will be much brighter than my worst. I am unique, beautiful, positive , strong-willed lady and above all, I welcome a challenge because that's what makes me who I am and I am an over-comer ~ Jenelle Joanne Ramsami

My head hasn't been very clear these last few days. I suppose that's why sunflowers made me think of heads. I wish mine could be as clean as they are. I was thinking on the train - if only there were some way to get your head cleaned and refinished. Just chop it off - well, maybe that would be a little violent. Just detach it and hand it over to some university hospital as if you were handing over a bundle of laundry. 'Do this up for me, please,' you'd say. And the rest of you would be quietly asleep for three or four days or a week while the hospital was busy cleaning your head and getting rid of the garbage. No tossing and no dreaming. ~ Yasunari Kawabata

I was dying, of course, but then we all are. Every day, in perfect increments, I was dying of loss.
The only help for my condition, then as now, is that I refused to let go of what I loved. I wrote everything down, at first in choppy fragments; a sentence here, a few words there, it was the most I could handle at the time. Later I wrote more, my grief muffled but not eased by the passage of time.
When I go back over my writing now I can barely read it. The happiness is the worst. Some days I can't bring myself to remember. But I will not relinquish a single detail of the past. What remains of my life depends on what happened six years ago.
In my brain, in my limbs, in my dreams, it is still happening. ~ Meg Rosoff

His months of teaching experience were now a lost age of youth and innocence. He could no longer sit in his office at Fort McNair, look out over the elm trees and the golf course, and encompass the world within "neat, geometric patterns" that fit within equally precise lectures. Policy planning was a very different responsibility, but explaining just how was "like trying to describe the mysteries of love to a person who has never experienced it."

There was, however, an analogy that might help. "I have a largish farm in Pennsylvania."...it had 235 acres, on each of which things were happening. Weekends, in theory, were days of rest. But farms defied theory:

Here a bridge is collapsing. No sooner do you start to repair it than a neighbor comes to complain about a hedge row which you haven't kept up half a mile away on the other side of the farm. At that very moment your daughter arrives to tell you that someone left the gate to the hog pasture open and the hogs are out. On the way to the hog pasture, you discover that the beagle hound is happily liquidating one of the children's pet kittens. In burying the kitten you look up and notice a whole section of the barn roof has been blown off and needs instant repair. Somebody shouts from the bathroom window that the pump has stopped working, and there's no water in the house. At that moment, a truck arrives with five tons of stone for the lane. And as you stand there hopelessly, wondering which of these crises ~ John Lewis Gaddis

If the queen catches you in here again, Princess, she'll sentence you to do the dishes right alongside me! she heard another voice ring out.
No one was there, but Snow knew the voice. It was Mrs. Kindred, the cook who had survived her aunt's dismissals over the years. When Snow's mother was alive, she'd encouraged her daughter to be friendly with those who helped them in the castle, and Mrs. Kindred had always been Snow's favorite person to chat with. She could see herself sitting on a chair, no more than six or seven, watching Mrs. Kindred chop onions, carrots, and leeks and throw them all into a giant pot of broth. She and Mrs. Kindred only stole a few moments together most days now- she suspected her aunt must have forbidden the cook from talking to her, what with how Mrs. Kindred always quickly sent Snow on her way- but back then she had always peppered the cook with questions. ("How do you cut the carrots so small? Why do leeks have sand in them? What spices are you going to add? How do you know how much to put in?") On one such occasion, she'd been such a distraction that Mrs. Kindred had finally picked her up, holding her high on her broad chest, and let her stir the pot herself. Eventually, she taught her how to dice and chop, too, since Snow wouldn't stop talking. By suppertime, young Snow had convinced herself she'd made the whole meal. She had been proud, too, carrying the dishes out to the dining table that night. ~ Jen Calonita

A few days later, I found myself back in the cellar. But this time, I was involved in an activity way more fun than cataloging magic junk.
"What happened to the promise of making out in castles?" I asked as Archer and I pulled back for a breather. I was leaning back against one of the shelves, my hands clutching Archer's waist. Over his shoulder, there was a jar of eyeballs staring at me, and I nodded toward it. "Because, see, things like that? Kind of a mood killer."
He glanced at the jar and then turned back to me, waggling his eyebrows. "Really? I find it has the opposite effect."
Giggling, I elbowed him in the stomach and pushed myself off the shelf. "You're sick."
He smiled and ducked his head to kiss me again, but I skirted around him. "Come on, Cross, we came down here for a reason, and it wasn't fooling around."
Smirking, Archer folded his arms over his chest. "May not have been your reason, but-"
I cut him off. "No. Don't distract me with your sexy talk. We need to search this place, and that spell Elodie did will only last so long." Elodie had swooped into my body at the cellar door, doing a quick spell to unlock it. She hadn't even looked at Archer, much less said anything. And the second the lock clicked open, she'd vanished.
The smirk disappeared from Archer's face, and he actually looked kind of sullen.
"Are you honestly that bummed about not hooking up right now?" I teased.
But he was deadly serious when he shook his ~ Rachel Hawkins

Remember is the last month,' said Festival.
'Remember's not a month.'
'Of course it is,' said Festival. 'There are twelve months thirty days long and the five days at the end of the year that are left over are called Remember. It's when we all remember what happened in the past year, all the people who were born and all the people who died. You have to have Remember, otherwise you'd start the next year out of balance. ~ Colin Thompson

There is nothing about abuse that makes it easy to talk about. Not how it is often someone you know, trust and love that inflicts the harm. Not how it spins your head a thousand times over, breaks your spine in two; traps you in a bed for days. There is nothing easy about crying in the shower after it is finished. Ruminating on the details. Watching tears dive into swimming pools at your feet. The night sweats. The intrusive thoughts. The feelings of being less than human. The guilt, the shame, the anger and the fear. I tell you, there is absolutely nothing soft about breaking. There are times when you betray yourself by thinking most about the person that cares for you the least. Times when you put your heart back together knowing it will still break again by morning. Times when you wonder if the darkness gets a kick out of staying too long. And you know it will cost a lot of therapy returning yourself to you, so instead you settle. You settle for anything that will alleviate the memories. The sweets. The overeating. The drugs. The alcohol. The fast sex. You know; those small violence's you do to your body in order to make sense of why. ~ Ezinne Orjiako, Nkem.

Like an ice in a spring river.
I melt and stay.
Sun will vaporise us.
It will take us up into clouds.
And then we both will fall.
Drop by drop.
We'll fall out of the sky.
We'll raise from dew to fog.
Every sunny warm morning.
We'll let the wind pull us with him.
Cooling our selves in forest shadows.
There in silence we'll cool off
One from another.
But in stormy days and nights.
We'll billow and crash.
One to another.
Like crazy and wild.
We'll churn into white foam.
Ashore in sands we'll wait
For the yellow october leaves
Into them we'll fall asleep.
We'll fall into and freeze.

We'll freeze and melt again
And flow and raise and fall again.
Over and over again

Even if we were in separete glasses of water.
We would moove together and whisper.
Even if in the oceans mixed.
We would moove together and sing.

I'm comming to You.
You are blazing.
I'm giving You a rose
It embalms sweet.

...

If I'll ever meet You.
I' ll take our time...
To dance dance dance dance with You... ~ Martins Paparde

Neliss, why is this rug wet?"
Legna peeked around the corner to glance at the rug in question, looking as if she had never seen it before.
"We have a rug there?"
"Did you or did you not promise me you were not going to practice extending how long you can hold your invisible bowls of water in the house? And what on earth is that noise?"
"Okay, I confess to the water thing, which was an honest mistake, I swear it. But as for a noise, I have no idea what you are talking about."
"You cannot hear that? It has been driving me crazy for days now. It just repeats over and over again, a sort of clicking sound."
"Well, it took a millennium, but you have finally gone completely senile. Listen, this is a house built by Lycanthropes. It is more a cave than a house, to be honest. I have yet to decorate to my satisfaction. There is probably some gizmo of some kind lying around, and I will come across it eventually or it will quit working the longer it is exposed to our influence. Even though I do not hear anything, I will start looking for it. Is this satisfactory?"
"I swear, Magdelegna, I am never letting you visit that Druid ever again."
"Oh, stop it. You do not intimidate me, as much as you would love to think you do. Now, I will come over there if you promise not to yell at me anymore. You have been quite moody lately."
"I would be a hell of a lot less moody if I could figure out what that damn noise is."
Legna came around the corner, mo ~ Jacquelyn Frank

You don't have to spend much time with the elderly or those with terminal illness to see how often medicine fails the people it is supposed to help. The waning days of our lives are given over to treatments that addle our brains and sap our bodies for a sliver's chance of benefit. They are spent in institutions - nursing homes and intensive care units - where regimented, anonymous routines cut us off from all the things that matter to us in life. Our reluctance to honestly examine the experience of aging and dying has increased the harm we inflict on people and denied them the basic comforts they most need. ~ Atul Gawande

You will wait until Ernest returns, and he will accompany you to market."
"That won't be until midmorning," she said indignantly. "I can't wait that long- all the best goods will be gone by then. In fact, the stalls are being picked over right now."
"That is a pity," Ross said without a shred of remorse. "Because you're not going alone. That is my final word on the subject."
Sophia leaned over his desk. For the first time in two days, she met his gaze directly. Ross was conscious of a deep delight curling through him as he saw the sparks of challenge in her blue eyes. "Sir Ross, when we first met, I wondered if you had any flaws. Now I have discovered that you do."
"Oh?" He arched one brow. "What are my flaws?"
"You are overbearing, and you are unreasonably stubborn."
Morgan interrupted with a snicker. "It has taken you a full month of working here to reach that conclusion, Miss Sydney? ~ Lisa Kleypas

This is perfect!" Gennie shouted over the motor as Grant's boat cut through the sea. "It feels like we could go all the way to Europe."
He laughed and ruffled her wind-tossed hair. "If you'd mentioned it before, I'd have put in a full tank of gas."
"Oh, don't be pracitcal-imagine it," she insisted. "We could be at sea for days and days."
"And nights." He bent over to catch the lobe of her ear between his teeth. "Full-mooned, shark-infested nights."
She gave a low laugh and slid her hands up his chest. "Who'll protect whom?"
"We Scots are too tough.Sharks probably prefer more tender-" his tongue dipped into her ear "-French delicacies. ~ Nora Roberts

So, what do you go for in a girl?"
He crows, lifting a lager to his lips
Gestures where his mate sits
Downs his glass
"He prefers tits I prefer ass. What do you go for in a girl?"
I don't feel comfortable
The air left the room a long time ago
All eyes are on me
Well, if you must know I want a girl who reads
Yeah. Reads.
I'm not trying to call you a chauvinist
Cos I know you're not alone in this but…
I want a girl who reads
Who needs the written word & uses the added vocabulary
She gleans from novels and poetry
To hold lively conversation In a range of social situations
I want a girl who reads
Who's heart bleeds at the words of Graham Greene Or even Heat magazine
Who'll tie back her hair while reading Jane Eyre
And goes cover to cover with each water stones three for two offer but
I want a girl who doesn't stop there
I want a girl who reads
Who feeds her addiction for fiction
With unusual poems and plays
That she hunts out in crooked bookshops for days and days and days
She'll sit addicted at breakfast, soaking up the back of the cornflakes box
And the information she gets from what she reads makes her a total fox
Cos she's interesting & unique & her theories make me go weak at the knees
I want a girl who reads
A girl who's eyes will analyze
The menu over dinner
Who'll use what she learn ~ Mark Grist

And next to Allie, the screamer, once more reminded of his job, began to wail in Allie's ear. Reflexively Allie clapped her hand over his mouth. "That," she said, "is totally uncalled for. Don't do that again. Ever." The screamer looked at her with worried eyes. "Are we clear on this subject?" said Allie. The screamer nodded and she removed her hand.
"Can I scream a little?" he asked.
"No," said Allie. "Your screaming days are over."
"Darn." And he was quiet thereafter. ~ Neal Shusterman

July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington

My very dear Sarah: The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days - perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more…
I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly willing - to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt…
Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me - perhaps it is the ~ Sullivan Ballou

Nine-year-old Laila rose from bed, as she did most mornings, hungry for the sight of her friend Tariq. This morning, however, she knew there would be no Tariq sighting.
- How long will you be gone? - She'd asked when Tariq had told her that his parents were
taking him south, to the city of Ghazni, to visit his paternal uncle.
- Thirteen days
- Thirteen days?
- It's not so long. You're making a face, Laila.
- I am not.
- You're not going to cry, are you?
- I am not going to cry! Not over you. Not in a thousand years.
She'd kicked at his shin, not his artificial but his real one, and he'd playfully whacked
the back of her head.
Thirteen days. Almost two weeks. And, just five days in, Laila had learned a fundamental truth about time: Like the accordion on which Tariq's father sometimes played old Pashto songs, time stretched and contracted depending on Tariq's absence or presence. ~ Khaled Hosseini

Eva will be impressed, too. Bet you're counting on that heading into the weekend." Damn right. I would need all the points I could earn when I met up with Eva in San Diego. "She's about to go out of town. And you have to head into the conference room before they get too restless in there. I'll join you as soon as I can." He stood. "Yes, I heard. Your mother's here. Let the wedding insanity begin. Since you're free this weekend, how about we round up some of the usual suspects at my place tonight? It's been a while, and your bachelor days are numbered. Well, technically they're over, but no one else knows that." And he was bound by attorney-client privilege. It took me a beat to decide. "All right. What time?" "Eight-ish." I nodded, then caught Scott's eye. He got ~ Sylvia Day

We walked down the back stairwell into the garden where the old breakfast table used to be. 'This was my father's spot. I call it his ghost spot. My spot used to be over there, if you remember.' I pointed to where my old table used to stand by the pool.

'Did I have a spot?' he asked with a half grin.

'You'll always have a spot.'

I wanted to tell him that the pool, the garden, the house, the tennis court, the orle of paradise, the whole place, would always be his ghost spot. Instead, I pointed upstairs to the French windows of his room. Your eyes are forever there, I wanted to say, trapped in the sheer curtains, staring out from my bedroom upstairs where no one sleeps these days. When there's a breeze and they swell and I look up from down here or stand outside on the balcony, I'll catch myself thinking that you're in there, staring out from your world to my world, saying, as you did on that one night when I found you on the rock, I've been happy here. You're thousands of miles away but no sooner do I look at this window than I'll think of a bathing suit, a shirt thrown on on the fly, arms resting on the banister, and you're suddenly there, lighting up your first cigarette of the day - twenty years ago today. For as long as the house stands, this will be your ghost spot - and mine too, I wanted to say. ~ Andre Aciman

Would you like to dance?"
I knew I had frosting on my nose.
Alex leaned over and wuped it off with his thumb. "Well?"
I could only nod. I had a full mouth, too. I stood up, swallowed, and accepted the napkin he was holding. "You're here."
"I'm here," he agreed, like it hadn't been a ridiculous thing to say. "I am crashing your sister's wedding. Hope she won't mind."
"She won't mind."
He was wearing a tux. A real tux, complete with bow tie and silk lapels. I stroked one. "I'm guessing this isn't a rental."
He squirmed a little. "No, it's mine. Nice dress."
I looked down at the snug purple monstrosity my sister had chosen. At least it had a mandarin collar and some sleeves. "It's a cheongsam," she'd announced proudly. "It's Eggplant Ho Lee Mess" was Frankie's take. My pear-shaped cousin Vanessa got strapless. Now she looked like an eggplant.
"You look beautiful," Alex said, but the corner of his mouth was twitching.
"Well,you look like...like..." I sighed. "Okay, you look really really good." Then, again, "You're here."
"I'm here."
"Why?"
"I missed you," he said simply.
"It's only been four days."
"A very,very long four days. But your e-mail helped." He reached for my hand. "Now,are we dancing or not?"
We did, and it wasn't as complicated as I'd thought it might be. I stood on my toes, he bent down a little, and we fit together pretty well. The song ended way too soon.
"So," Alex said.
"So ~ Melissa Jensen

The world of shadows and superstition that was Victorian England, so well depicted in this 1871 tale, was unique. While the foundations of so much of our present knowledge of subjects like medicine, public health, electricity, chemistry and agriculture, were being, if not laid, at least mapped out, people could still believe in the existence of devils and demons. And why not? A good ghost story is pure entertainment. It was not until well into the twentieth century that ghost stories began to have a deeper significance and to become allegorical; in fact, to lose their charm. No mental effort is required to read 'The Weird Woman', no seeking for hidden meanings; there are no complexities of plot, no allegory on the state of the world. And so it should be. At what other point in literary history could a man, standing over the body of his fiancee, say such a line as this:

'Speak, hound! Or, by heaven, this night shall witness two murders instead of one!'

Those were the days.

(introduction to "The Weird Woman") ~ Hugh Lamb

She saw the different times at sea - calm blue days, raw pea-green ones, others when the skies turned black and thunderbolts blasted the masts, and the galloping waves. The ship then leaned this way, another way, seeming to want to throw herself right over and upside down. Had Art ever been frightened? Maybe only once. One of the earliest memories, this. Molly standing braced, holding Art, two or three years old, in her arms. 'What a spectacle!' cried Molly. 'Look - how beautiful it is!' And then, 'Don't ever be afraid of the sea. She's the best friend out kind have got. Better than any land, however fair. Respect the sea, yes, but don't ever think what the sea does is cruel or unjust. People are that. The sea is only herself. And this ship - she's lucky. She's friends with this sea. They know how to behave with each other.' Exactly then, a great green salt wave swamped the decks. Canvas was being hauled in, Molly's crew clutching and swinging like monkeys along the masts. Art and Molly, soaked, and Molly saying, 'And even if we went down, don't fear that either. Those that the sea keeps sleep among mermaids and pearls and sunken kingdoms. You wouldn't mind that, would you, love? ~ Tanith Lee

Why do you think there aren't rules to how sex will work? You didn't want to talk to me about what you wanted. You pushed me into the room so I wouldn't turn on the light because you knew damn well I would push back on that, didn't you?"
She stayed where she was. "Yes. I don't want you to see me. I don't look like one of those girls in a magazine."
He groaned, the sound coming from deep in his chest. "Those girls in the magazines are airbrushed and way too thin. The camera adds pounds so those girls are so skinny I wouldn't be able to fuck them for fear I would break them. I want a woman, Avery, not some tiny freaking thing whose waistline only proves she doesn't eat. I want a woman who can take me. I want a woman I can hold on to. So bend over because I want to see your ass. I want to look at it because I've been dreaming about it for days. It's hot and round and so fucking juicy I can't stand it. Get me hot, Avery. Show me your ass. ~ Lexi Blake

I suppose there is something in all of us that harks back to the soil. When you come to think of it, what are picnics but outcroppings of instinct? No one really enjoys them or expects to enjoy them, but with the first warm days some prehistoric instinct takes us out into the woods, to fry potatoes over a strangling wood fire or spend the next week getting grass stains out of our clothes. It must be instinct; every atom of intelligence warns us to stay at home near the refrigerator. ~ Mary Roberts Rinehart

(It's a weird thing, depression. Even now, writing this with a good distance of fourteen years from my lowest point, I haven't fully escaped. You get over it, but at the same time you never get over it. It comes back in flashes, when you are tired or anxious or have been eating the wrong stuff, and catches you off guard. I woke up with it a few days ago, in fact. I felt its dark wisps around my head, that ominous life-is-fear feeling. But then, after a morning with the best five- and six-year-olds in the world, it subsided. it is now an aside. Something to put brackets around. Life lesson: the way out is never through yourself.) ~ Matt Haig

The year was 1987, but it might as well have been the Summer of Love: I was twenty, had hair down to my shoulders, and was dressed like an Indian rickshaw driver. For those charged with enforcing our nation's drug laws, it would have been only prudent to subject my luggage to special scrutiny. Happily, I had nothing to hide. "Where are you coming from?" the officer asked, glancing skeptically at my backpack. "India, Nepal, Thailand…" I said. "Did you take any drugs while you were over there?" As it happens, I had. The temptation to lie was obvious - why speak to a customs officer about my recent drug use? But there was no real reason not to tell the truth, apart from the risk that it would lead to an even more thorough search of my luggage (and perhaps of my person) than had already commenced. "Yes," I said. The officer stopped searching my bag and looked up. "Which drugs did you take? "I smoked pot a few times… And I tried opium in India." "Opium?" "Yes." "Opium or heroin? "It was opium." "You don't hear much about opium these days." "I know. It was the first time I'd ever tried it." "Are you carrying any drugs with you now?" "No." The officer eyed me warily for a moment and then returned to searching my bag. Given the nature of our conversation, I reconciled myself to being there for a very long time. I was, therefore, as patient as a tree. Which was a good thing, because the officer was now examining my belongings as though any one item - a toothbrush, a book, a flashlight ~ Sam Harris

I'm in touch with Stick players all over the world, so I have a unique perspective on what they need from a website. Stick Enterprises is a small family-run business, but they have a depth of experience and committment that's pretty rare these days. I try to make sure that all the bases are covered for them, because I think what they do is really valuable to the music world. ~ Greg Howard

Her poetry is written on the ghost of trees, whispered on the lips of lovers.
As a little girl, she would drift in and out of libraries filled with dead poets and their musky scent. She held them in her hands and breathed them in
wanting so much to be part of their world ...
It was on her sixteenth birthday that she first fell in love. With a boy who brought her red roses and white lies. When he broke her heart, she cried for days.
Then hopeful, she sat with a pen in her hand, poised over the blank white sheet, but it refused to draw blood ...
She learned too late that poets are among the damned, cursed to commiserate over their loss, to reach with outstretched hands
hands that will never know the weight of what they seek. ~ Lang Leav

The days of looking the other way while despotic regimes trample human rights, rob their nations' wealth, and then excuse their failings by feeding their people a steady diet of anti-Western hatred are over. ~ Dick Cheney

It was dusk when Ian returned, and the house seemed unnaturally quiet. His uncle was sitting near the fire, watching him with an odd expression on his face that was half anger, half speculation. Against his will Ian glanced about the room, expecting to see Elizabeth's shiny golden hair and entrancing face. When he didn't, he put his gun back on the rack above the fireplace and casually asked, "Where is everyone?"
"If you mean Jake," the vicar said, angered yet more by the way Ian deliberately avoided asking about Elizabeth, "he took a bottle of ale with him to the stable and said he was planning to drink it until the last two days were washed from his memory."
"They're back, then?"
"Jake is back," the vicar corrected as Ian walked over to the table and poured some Madeira into a glass. "The servingwomen will arrive in the morn. Elizabeth and Miss Throckmorton-Jones are gone, however."
Thinking Duncan meant they'd gone for a walk, Ian flicked a glance toward the front door. "Where have they gone at this hour?"
"Back to England."
The glass in Ian's hand froze halfway to his lips. "Why?" he snapped.
"Because Miss Cameron's uncle has accepted an offer for her hand."
The vicar watched in angry satisfaction as Ian tossed down half the contents of his glass as if he wanted to wash away the bitterness of the news. When he spoke his voice was laced with cold sarcasm. "Who's the lucky bridegroom?"
"Sir Francis Belhaven, I believe."
Ian' ~ Judith McNaught