The only pride of her workday was not that it had been lived, but that it had been survived. It was wrong, she thought, it was viciously wrong that one should ever be forced to say that about any hour of one's life.
Often she felt as though she had been picked up and turned about like a kaleidoscope, that all her complacent assumptions had been shaken up and reassembled in a different order
There are, he assures her, no such things as curses. There is luck, maybe, bad or good. A slight inclination of each day towards success or failure. But no curses.
Later, when they would spend straight hours conversing in the dark, Jane would realize that Henry kissed the way he talked- his entire attention taut, focused, intensely hers.
If one plays with fire, one should be prepared to burn, Jane.” “You say that as if I’m in danger from you.” “Maybe you are,” Tobias growled as the scent of her invaded his nostrils...
You can stretch to your fullest in this land, Emma, and not touch any edges. There's no dream too big for the wilderness. I'd hate to see it tamed and carved up into little fiefdoms.
I could burn this place down As many times as I'd like in my mind, Without any sympathy For the girl or her mother Who live beneath me
Amazing, how much more difficult it was to extend his arm twelve inches and touch her hand than it was to snatch a speeding Snitch from midair ...
Rita looked as though she would have liked nothing better than to seize the paper umbrella sticking out of Hermione's drink and thrust it up her nose.
A thirteen-year-old is a kaleidoscope of different personalities, if not in most ways a mere figment of her own imagination. At that age, what and who you are depends largely on what book you happen to be reading at the moment.
Still shuddering, he collapsed atop her on a long, strangled groan. It sounded as if someone had just wrung out his soul. Ella knew precisely how he felt.
Nothing helped until the day she took a tablet and pencil into the basement and moved the event out of her and onto paper, where it was reshaped into a kind of simple equation: loss equaled the need to love again, more.
My best friend is dead, and I could have saved her. It’s so wrong so completely and painfully wrong, that I walked through my front door tonight smiling.
She's thirty-four years old. In fifty, sixty years, she'll be dead, and everything reminds her of this fact but him. With Arnie, she imagines she might live forever.
No, but I imagine there's a gun tucked away somewhere on your body. And I know what you can do with that, hotshot." He took a step toward her. "With what, sweetheart? With the gun? Or the body?
All the bad in my life led me to her, which makes me think that I can live with the past if she is my future. —HEW
I didn't know there were this many math guys," Hale said as they stepped onto the crowded concourse. Kat cleared her throat. "And women," he added. "Math women.
I would have asked you to let down your hair" turning to regard her with a grin, his teeth a slash of white in his blackened face. "But it is not quite long enough anymore.
It's hot out there." I prowl toward her, pulling off my shirt. I maybe flex my abs a little- anything for my girl.
You sure you're not just trying to get into my pants?" I joked, but I was already trying to figure out what one wears to a detox session in her boyfriend's dungeon-like bedroom.
What lurking temptations to forbidden tenderness find their finding-places in a woman's dressing-gown, when she is alone in her room at night!
