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Quote by Sylvain Reynard

“You toyed with her heart. I know what that’s like. I can have compassion for her because of that.” “I met you first,” he whispered. “That doesn’t give you license to be cruel.”

Quote by Sylvain Reynard

Work

Gabriel's Rapture

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Author

Sylvain Reynard
Sylvain Reynard

Sylvain Reynard is a French author known for his romantic novels, characterized by complex emotional entanglements and profound character development. more

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“Scarlett lived by the (thankfully) ancient medical creed: If it tastes awful and smells worse, it’s probably good for you. Julia wasn’t so sure about that. She lived by the edict: If it tastes awful and smells worse, leave it the hell alone. On the other hand, if it tasted good and smelled better, you either ate it, squirted it on your neck or fucked it. It hadn’t led her wrong so far.”

“Der Rest ihres Verstandes explodierte in hunderttausend grellbunten, ohrenbetäubenden Lichtpunkten, ein Feuerwerk der Empfindungen, während dieser unendlichen Sekunden der Vereinigung mit Nisha. Und dann begannen die Glocken zu läuten, laut und wild, vibrierten tief in ihr, brachten ihr Innerstes zum Klingen. Doch erst als sie aus weiter Entfernung eine Stimme hörte, eine vertraute, geliebte Stimme, die ihren Namen rief und völlig aufgelöst klang, sickerte allmählich in Julias angeschlagenes Bewusstsein, dass das Feuerwerk und das Glockenläuten nicht nur in ihrem Inneren stattfanden. Das neue Jahr hatte angefangen und wurde von den Leuten in den Straßen frenetisch gefeiert.”

“He ran his knuckles over her cheek as their gazes met and held. So much. He had been given so much. The sound of their daughters’ high-pitched laughter drew their gazes away from each other nd toward their children. The girls came running toward them, breathless and excited. Their hair was messed in tousled disarray, their gowns were smeared with dirt, their skin was flushed and rosy. They leaped onto the blanket, tumbling over each other like exuberant puppies as they wrapped their chubby arms about his neck. “Papa, Papa, we want a new game!” Morgan thought for a moment, overcome with a profound sense of gratitude. Of all he had been given, perhaps the most significant gift was a deep reverence for life, with all its pain and all its glory. Every loss had meaning. And every day was a new reason for celebration.”

“A few blocks farther on, we found Terminus, his World War I greatcoat peppered with shrapnel holes, his nose broken clean off his marble face. Crouching behind his pedestal was a little girl—his helper, Julia, I presumed—clutching a steak knife. Terminus turned on us with such fury I feared he would zap us into stacks of customs declaration forms. “Oh, it’s you,” he grumbled. “My borders have failed. I hope you’ve brought help.” I looked at the terrified girl behind him, feral and fierce and ready to spring. I wondered who was protecting whom. “Ah…maybe?” The old god’s face hardened a bit more, which shouldn’t have been possible for stone. “I see. Well. I’ve concentrated the last bits of my power here, around Julia. They may destroy New Rome, but they will not harm this girl!” “Or this statue!” said Julia.”

“Poppy Devine did not deserve cancer. Poppy was sweet and industrious and careful and measured and always, always did the right thing. If anyone deserved cancer it was Julia. Julia was loud and opinionated and disagreeable. Rude, some might even say. She went out with bad men, took unnecessary risks, pushed people to their limits, swore like a sailor and flipped the bird more than any female in the history of the world. It should be her number coming up in the cancer lottery.”

“Why this girl? Why had this girl crawled right under his skin and made an uncomfortable home there? Why did he want to make things good for her, to see her smile, to make her face and her voice make all those interesting shapes and noises? Why did he want to stay up late with her when he knew she should be sleeping, just to hear her talk about maths and politics and the state of the world? This was not Quentin. Quentin did not like skinny girls. He didn’t like serious girls. And he really hated bossy girls. Quentin loved curvy, fun, uncomplicated girls; girls who laughed at his jokes and took off their bras when they danced on tables. If they wore bras at all. Yet here he was, washing up and mopping and feeling like five kinds of an arsehole over hurting the feelings of some skinny, serious, bossy girl.”