Pen would pray to his God for guidance, but he never did get any back when he did that, so he supposed he must use his own judgment. - Lois McMaster Bujold

"Sorry, Bill. I just have this awful vision of being p-peeled like an onion, looking for the seeds."
He grinned. "Onions don't have seeds, Cordelia."
"I stand corrected," she said dryly.

“At least this should be simpler than our late vacation on Earth,” he said hopefully. “A purely military operation, no relatives, no politics, no high finance. Straight-up good guys and bad guys.”
“Great,” said Quinn. “Which are we?”
Miles was still thinking about the answer to that one when the fleet broke orbit.

“Honesty is the only way with anyone, when you’ll be so close as to be living inside each other’s skins. So…is this Ekaterin another passing fancy?” The Count hesitated, his eyes crinkling. “Or is she the one who will love my son forever and fiercely—hold his household and estates with integrity—stand beside him through danger, and dearth, and death—and guide my grandchildren’s hands when they light my funeral offering?”