63
" In two months, I think, my college job will end. In two months I will have no office, no college, no salary, no home. Everything will be different. But, I think, everything already is. When Alice dropped down the rabbit-hole into Wonderland she fell so slowly she could take things from the cupboards and bookshelves on the walls, look curiously at the maps and pictures that passed her by. In my three years as a Cambridge Fellow there’d been lectures and libraries and college meetings, supervisions, admissions interviews, late nights of paper-writing and essay-marking, and other things soaked in Cantabrian glamour: eating pheasant by candlelight at High Table while snow dashed itself in flurries against the leaded glass and carols were sung and the port was passed and the silver glittered upon dark-polished refectory tables. Now, standing on a cricket pitch with a hawk on my hand, I knew I had always been falling as I moved past these things. I could reach out and touch them, pick them off their shelves and replace them, but they were not mine. Not really ever mine. Alice, falling, looked down to see where she was headed, but everything below her was darkness. "
― Helen Macdonald , H is for Hawk
64
" If she herself had had any picture of the future, it had been of a society of animals set free from hunger and the whip, all equal, each working according to his capacity, the strong protecting the weak, as she had protected the lost brood of ducklings with her foreleg on the night of Major's speech. Instead–she did not know why–they had come to a time when no one dared speak his mind, when fierce, growling dogs roamed everywhere, and when you had to watch your comrades torn to pieces after confessing to shocking crimes. There was no thought of rebellion or disobedience in her mind. She knew that, even as things were, they were far better off than they had been in the days of Jones, and that before all else it was needful to prevent the return of the human beings. Whatever happened she would remain faithful, work hard, carry out the orders that were given to her, and accept the leadership of Napoleon. But still, it was not for this that she and all the other animals had hoped and toiled. It was not for this that they had built the windmill and faced the bullets of Jones's gun. Such were her thoughts, though she lacked the words to express them.At last, feeling this to be in some way a substitute for the words she was unable to find, she began to sing Beasts of England. The other animals sitting round her took it up, and they sang it three times over–very tunefully, but slowly and mournfully, in a way they had never sung it before. "
66
" Her feet moved into the vast space, but all she couldsee was Cyrus. He strode through the room the way acaptain commands his ship. Was it possible his maroon bruise made him more dashing? He was a fine sight in a black broadcloth coat. Hersalacious gaze dropped to a brass button lower on hiswaistcoat. The metal glimmered, winking at her withflirtatious intent very near the tuft of hair she rememberedso well at his navel. The corner of Cyrus’s mouth crooked. If shelooked ready to devour him, he read the message onher face, no words required. “Claire.” He said her name like a treasured sound. Then, herlandlord bent low over her hand, kissing her knucklesand keeping her fingers in a tender hold.Her flesh sung a merry tune recalling how she’dgripped those broad shoulders of his in a fit of passion.Was that only two nights ago? Her cheeks turned hotat the memory. Cyrus rose to his full height, holding her hand. Heplanted a kiss on her forehead. “Mmmm…” he hummed approvingly. “You smellof almonds.” His lips lingered on her hairline, givingher another soft kiss. “And vanilla, I think. Somethingyou cooked?” He breathed in her scent, standing close yet notintimidating in the least. His own smell was cleanand starched with a hint of coffee. She reached high,touching his face like a woman with every right topartake of the feast he offered. “It’s face powder.” One finger stroked the smoothsquare of his jaw, her voice curving with amusement. “Today I join the ranks of ladies who meet for luncheon,and I can’t be sure if I’ve been lured here orgoaded by one very challenging man put on earth toharass my senses.” She caressed his jaw, the grain of his skin smoothto the touch. He must’ve shaved in the last hour. Hismouth quirked sideways, pressing the maroon bruisehigher up his cheek. “Something tells me you’re the perfect woman tosoothe such a man or put him in his place.” His pewterstare flicked over her exposed skin, settling on hercleavage. “As to your senses, I shall treat them withthe utmost care. "
67
" What did you do to make him smile?” “Ah…” Alessandro bit back a grin and cleared his throat. “I might’ve sung a song.” “Really? What song?” “As his mother, I don’t think I should repeat it for you,” Alessandro said, his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink. “Oh come on, Alessandro. The windows didn’t break so you couldn’t have done that bad a job.” “It’s not my ability that I’m referring to,” Alessandro replied. Bree narrowed her eyes. “Just what were you singing to my son? And so help me if you say anything by Sir Mix-a-lot I’ll castrate you,” “Not quite,” Alessandro said. “All right. But, remember you asked for it. Your cousin Max, taught it to me.” Bree crossed her arms over her breasts and waited. "
― E. Jamie , The Betrayal (Blood Vows, #2)
69
" It was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when they flung the door open. In the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a horn lantern, some eight or ten little field-mice stood in a semicircle, red worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth. With bright beady eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing and applying coat-sleeves a good deal. As the door opened, one of the elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, " Now then, one, two, three!" and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to lamp-lit windows at Yule-time. "
75
" This is our sacred land, Bharat, a land whose glories are sung by theGods, a land visualized by Mahayogi Aurobindo as the living manifestationof the Divine Mother of the universe, the Jaganmaataa, the Aadishakti,the Mahaamaayaa, the Mahaadurgaa, Who has assumed concrete form toenable us to see Her and worship Her,...a land worshipped by all our seers andsages as Maatrubhoomi, Dharmabhoomi, Karmabhoomi and Punybhoomi, averitable Devabhoomi and Mokshabhoomi" - "