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She took the story in like some strange, spiked gift, too fragile to drop, too painful to hold.
Koudelka puzzled over this attempted readjustment of his point of view, then let it bounce harmlessly off his impermeable habits of thought.
“Do you know, I think you’d like politics, at least on Barrayar. Maybe because it’s so similar to what we call war, elsewhere.”
“So this word of honor business—you believe he never breaks it?” “Well . . .” “He does, then.” “I have seen him do so. But the cost was huge.” “He breaks it for a price, then.” “Not for a price. At a cost.” “I fail to see the distinction.” “A price is something you get. A cost is something you lose. He lost—much, at Escobar.”
Sarongs were last year’s fashion; this year it was exotic and whimsical body paint, at least for the brave.
“Women shouldn’t be in combat,” said Vorkosigan, grimly glum. “Neither should men, in my opinion.
“But I’ve always thought—tests are a gift. And great tests are a great gift. To fail the test is a misfortune. But to refuse the test is to refuse the gift, and something worse, more irrevocable, than misfortune.
“Oh, God,” cried Ferrell, shocked and nauseated. “You are crazy! You’re a damn, damn necrophiliac! A lesbian necrophiliac, at that!” He turned to go.
