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G Quotes

Browse famous quotes beginning with G. This page is a child index of the full Popular Quotes A-Z directory.

All G Quotes

“Grace flattened her palm on his chest. "I've not been writing it correctly." "Writing what, exactly?" "Passion. I forgot what it was," she whispered. "I went off what I saw in movies or read, but I haven't...experienced...it in many years." He didn't like thinking about other men being with her, but they were in the past. Where they would remain. "Were they no' good lovers?" "They were all right, but without passion, it all feels...empty." Arian tightened his arm around her before he rolled her onto her back so he could look into her face. "I'll be happy to show you several times a day.”

“Grace had begun to realize that she only really knew two ways to communicate with others. One was to wear a mask, and to lie and perform from behind that mask, as she had performed obedience to her mother, and love to James. The other way was to be honest, which she had only ever really done with Jesse. Even then she had hidden from him the things she was ashamed of doing. Not hiding, she was finding, was a painful.”

“Grace had turned to Leeza, Ken, her boyfriend, Brian, and baking. She started by baking the family recipes from her childhood. Cinnamon buns, gingersnaps, saffron bread, and lingonberry pancakes. Grace knew she didn't have her mother's talent, but she tried her best and hoped it might also bring her mother back to earth. Maybe even bring the two of them closer. One afternoon, Grace made a German chocolate cake. She decided to try something different, and added fresh local Door County sour cherries to the batter. When Ken tasted it, he'd fallen on the floor, exclaiming, "I'm dead, but at least I went to heaven: Death by chocolate!”

“Grace handed the rose back to the old vendor; then she turned and started to walk away. After a few steps, unable to resist the fragrance still in her mind, she stopped and came back. "Hungarian, right?" she asked the vendor as she pointed to the bucket of pinkish roses, spying Patrick's curiosity. "They're roses, lady," he said. Grace bent over and stuck her face right into the heads of the entire bucketful of sweet-scented pinkish flowers. "Rosa gallica officinalis, definitely," she said mostly to herself. "I'm betting from east of the Danube, probably in the plains around Scabolcs-Szatmar-Bereg," Grace pronounced with a pretty good East European accent. She smelled them again, pulled herself away, and again mumbled to herself aloud. "Great depth. Would make a killer base note in a spicy summer parfum." She looked again at Patrick and pointed to the pinkish flowers in the bucket, and quickly walking away, she stated with a professional tone: "Those are nice." Undoubtedly, Patrick noted, this was a woman much more interested in roses than in the men who presented them.”

“Grace has to be the loveliest word in the English language. It embodies almost every attractive quality we hope to find in others. Grace is a gift of the humble to the humiliated. Grace acknowledges the ugliness of sin by choosing to see beyond it. Grace accepts a person as someone worthy of kindness despite whatever grime or hard-shell casing keeps him or her separated from the rest of the world. Grace is a gift of tender mercy when it makes the least sense.”

“Grace." He drew out the word so it became a long, deep, guttural growl. A sound as primitive as a lion's roar for its mate. Her skin prickled with animal awareness and the breath caught in her throat. Every drop of moisture evaporated from her mouth. Low in her belly, blood began to beat slow and hard with anticipation. Her face must have betrayed her unfurling arousal. Or perhaps, like her, he reacted to the sudden charge in the air, as electric as the pause before a lightning strike. Still without shifting his fierce focus, he set down the box he carried. Then he reached to close the doors and slide the bolt across. Any doubt as to his purpose fled. A delicious thrill rippled through her. The summerhouse was raised on a platform so the windows opened above eye height. With the doors locked, it was a bower designed for private sin. Sin was clearly his aim. Now she looked more closely, she realized it wasn't anger that tightened the skin over the bones of his face. It was incendiary hunger. She should protest. Question. Demand he tell her why he was here. But overwhelming need kept her silent and pinned to the window seat.”

“Grace in women has more effect than beauty. We sometimes see a certain fine self-possession, an habitual voluptuousness of character, which reposes on its own sensations and derives pleasure from all around it, that is more irresistible than any other attraction. There is an air of languid enjoyment in such persons, "in their eyes, in their arms, and their hands, and their face," which robs us of ourselves, and draws us by a secret sympathy towards them.”