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B Quotes

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All B Quotes

“But she couldn’t stop. The smell of her burning house still filled her nostrils even as the chilly breeze swept by her enticingly. The screams that rang out were deafening; flames shot up everywhere. The screams were prolonged and were she, a little child of ten, not so scared, they would have been very irritating for they were constant; they were horror filled, they spelt death and terror.”

“But she couldn't dismiss easily his light touch with her. No pushing or pressing, none of that herding and corralling bullshit, unlike any of her old boyfriends. And maybe who you fell for and who you eventually loved wasn't rational, no matter how hard you tried to list pros and cons and sum the results. You couldn't think your way through it, not all the way. Maybe just the scent of somebody carried more weight than everything else put together.”

“But she did not take her eyes from the wheels of the second car. And exactly at the moment when the midpoint between the wheels drew level with her, she threw away the red bag, and drawing her head back into her shoulders, fell on her hands under the car, and with a light movement, as though she would rise immediately, dropped on her knees. And at the instant she was terror-stricken at what she was doing. 'Where am I? What am I doing? What for?' She tried to get up, to throw herself back; but something huge and merciless struck her on the head and dragged her down on her back.”

“But she feared time itself... the dwindling of life; how year by year her share was sliced; how, little the margin that remained was capable any longer of stretching, of absorbing, as in the youthful years, the colours, salts, tones of existence, so that she filled the room she entered, and felt often as she stood hesitating one moment on the threshold of her drawing-room, an exquisite suspense, such as might stay a diver before plunging while the sea darkens and brightens beneath him, and the waves which threaten to break, but only gently split their surface, roll and conceal and encrust as they just turn over the weeds with pearl.”

“But she had long ago learned that when she wandered into the realm of fancy she must go alone. The way to it was by an enchanted path where not even her dearest might follow her.”

“But she had never, ever heard Rodrigo speak of another man the way he'd talked about Ammar ibn Khairan during the long, waiting winter just past. The way the man sat a horse, handled a blade, a bow, devised strategies, jested, spoke of history, geography, the properties of good wine. Even the way he wrote poetry. "Are you in love with this man?" she'd asked her husband once in Fezana that winter - more than half jealous, if truth were told. "I suppose I am, in a way," Rodrigo had replied after a moment. "Isn't it odd." It wasn't, really, Miranda thought, on that hill by Silvenes.”

“But she herself had never felt that way about anyone, not as a teenager, not in art school, not since. It occurred to her that except for her brother, when they were children, she’d never seen a man naked. More than that: she’d never touched anyone and felt that warmth, that electric tension at the nearness of someone else. The only thing that had given her that feeling had been art—and then, of course, Pearl.”

“But she ignored it, leaning her brow against the cool glass of the window. She let the starlight gently brush her head, her face, her neck. Imagined it running its shimmering fingers down her cheek, as her mother had done for her and her alone. My Nesta. Elain shall wed for love and beauty, but you, my cunning little queen... You shall wed for conquest.”

“But she just couldn’t stop checking her phone; she wanted to stop, tried to stop, but the pull would not let her go. It was a strange experience for her to be doing the obsessive phone-checking thing. Vanessa talked about it, and she had heard stories about it from other friends. One date with a guy and suddenly the phone becomes like an appendage endowed with some super power to predict your future.”

“But she knew herself. Her body longed to feel pain, to exact it, but her mind feared it too much to allow herself the freedom to. Besides, her knuckles were already blistering from the beating they’d been taking for the better part of an hour. Without the gloves she’d have shattered a hand by now. Wouldn’t that be just like her. To fear pain so and yet stumble into it at every opportunity.”

“But she knew this,—that it was necessary for her happiness that she should devote herself to some one. All the elegancies and outward charms of life were delightful, if only they could be used as the means to some end. As an end themselves they were nothing.”