A true Vor, Miles told himself severely, does not bury his face in his liegewoman's breasts and cry — even if he is at a convenient height for it. - Lois McMaster Bujold

Just because I have forgotten so many old enemies does not mean they have forgotten me.

“Think of the glory. Think of your reputation. Think how great it’ll look on your next resume.”
“On my cenotaph, you mean. Nobody will be able to collect enough of my scattered atoms to bury. You’re going to cover my funeral expenses, son?”
“Splendidly. Banners, dancing girls, and enough beer to float your coffin to Valhalla.”
Tung sighed. “Make it plum wine to float the boat, eh? Drink the beer.”

“Do you know what this is, Lord Vorkosigan?” Giaja asked.
Miles eyed the medallion of the Order of Merit on its colored ribbon, glittering on a bed of velvet. “Yes, sir. It is a lead weight, suitable for sinking small enemies. Are you going to sew me into a silk sack with it, before you throw me overboard?”