As my crying quieted, I could finally hear a woman's voice outside my bathroom stall at LaGuardia ask, "Are you okay?" "Yes, yes, I really am, it's alright," I said, and came out to see a blonde a bit older than I who had been on the same flight.
Harried exclamations of "These tights have a run!" "I've lost my left tap shoe!" and of course, the never-ending battle cry: "Quiet in the wings!" fill the air in a chorus of recital fever.
"There You Are!" Phineas Breeley cried, entering the quiet room, striding to the coffeepot and pouring himself an overfull cup.
When it got quiet, I cried for Sala and her boys.
"The guy who sleeps late in the afternoon and the woman who gets up early -- they're not in sync!" Mr. Rushnell, known as an easygoing, loose, offbeat executive, the kind of businessman you might expect to meet at a yoga retreat in California, cried throughout their tiny, quiet wedding ceremony on Oct. 28.
When we asked, "Where are your boys and husbands?" the women cried and then turned quiet.
She cries: a slow, quiet, shy cry.
The next day in kindergarten class, however, Sharansky kept his personal views quiet, crying for Stalin and praising him along with the rest of his class.
There was a good deal of quiet crying, the kind that goes on for a while before you even realize it's happening, before you taste the salt on your lips.
