Senator Stanton? The man who’s sold his own soul so many times that no one can figure out who actually owns… — M. K. Hobson

Emily’s chestnut-colored hair was thick and shiny as silk floss—an extraordinary female endowment. But like most female endowments, it was generally more trouble than it was worth.

Emily looked at him for a long time. There were so many things she wanted to know—but she wanted not to know them even more. She didn’t want any more answers. He had been the one thing she could trust, the one person she could rely on. She wanted to beg him to be that way again. But it wasn’t him who had changed. It was her. It was her own credulity she really wanted back. And credulity, like virtue, could be lost only once.

I’d ask you to forego the jingoistic claptrap, but it’s terrifyingly obvious you truly believe it.