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All H Quotes

“He didn't like causing her discomfort. "How are your hands?" He held his out, palm up. Rounding the bed slowly, she placed hers in them. Stanislav sat up straighter and examined them closely, then swore. Raw, open blisters marred the skin at the crooks of her thumbs and the base of every finger. She had gripped that shovel for so long that the blisters had all popped and the flap of loose skin on each had torn away. It looked painful. And she had said nothing, not even complaining when she had held one hand over the steaming pot of pasta while stirring it, something that must have made her hand hurt even more. "Stop beating yourself up about it," she ordered softly. He raised his head, on a level with hers though he sat and she stood. "I wasn't intentionally listening to your thoughts," she told him. "You were sort of broadcasting them. And it wasn't your fault." "I beg to differ. Had I not compelled you to dig me up—" "You would probably be dead right now," she finished for him. Withdrawing one hand, she drew it over his hair. "It was worth it." His pulse raced at her touch. His gaze dropped to her lips. He heard her heartbeat pick up.”

“He didn't like to fly--the noise and vibration gave him a headache--but, as with anything new, he was excited by the strangeness of it. The disjuncture intrigued him: stepping through a door in one place, sitting still for a few hours, then stepping out a thousand miles away. It seemed to him a very American mode of travel, even more so than the car, not simply going farther faster, but eliminating any temporal experience of the journey, skipping over whole sections of the country, the sole focus on arriving, with the help of expensive and arcane technologies, at one's destination, except of course, when one didn't--a thought brought on by his own instinctive disbelief and the bumpiness of the flight.”

“He didn't look at her, instead keeping his gaze on the piles of books still waiting to be returned to their shelves. "Which one do you want to borrow?" she asked him after another moment's silence. He carefully picked up a copy of Marie NDiaye's Trois femmes puissantes. Long fingers traced the black swirls of letters against the yellowed paper of an open page. "All of them.”

“He didn't mention the family to Mrs. Piper or Professor Lovell. He didn't want to dwell on the things they represented - the fact that for all of his professed allegiance to revolution, for his commitment to equality and to helping those who were without, he had no experience of true poverty at all. He'd seen hard times in Canton, but he had never not known where his next meal might come from or where he would sleep at night. He had never looked at his family and wondered what it might take to keep them alive. For all his identification with the poor orphan Oliver Twist, for all his bitter self-pity, the fact remained that since the day he had set foot in England, he had not once gone to sleep hungry.”

“He didn’t mind Drake so much. Drake was a creep. It was the girl who made Orc want to cry. She was a monster. Like Orc. Begging for death. Begging for someone to let her go to her Jesus. Kill me, kill me, kill me, she begged every day and every night. Orc took a deep swig. Tears seeped from his human eyes and fell into the rocky crevices of his face.”

“He didn't move, but Iris watched as he swallowed. His blue eyes smoldered as he studied her; she was jarred by it until she realized he was also taking in her every detail, from her neck down to her toes. Her skeins of hair, her freckles on her face. The longer he beheld her, the more his countenance softened, and she wondered if he was remembering her. If there was something about her that called him. A mortal bond that was stronger than any divine magic.”

“He didn't need to read a book on childbirth to know that the longer this went on, the greater the danger to both Marigold and her kid. "I'll do it." Gabe didn't know what the hell he was doing, but he was dead certain about one thing: He had to be in love with Lady Penelope Campion. Nothing less could have persuaded him to do this. Penny, this is for you. He rolled his sleeve to his biceps, drew a deep breath through his mouth, and shook out his hand. "I'm going in.”

“He didn't need to read a book on childbirth to know that the longer this went on, thee greater the danger to both Marigold and her kid. "I'll do it." Gabe didn't know what the hell he was doing, but he was dead certain about one thing: He had to be in love with Lady Penelope Campion. Nothing less could have persuaded him to do this. Penny, this is for you. He rolled his sleeve to his biceps, drew a deep breath through his mouth, and shook out his hand. "I'm going in.”

“He didn't overpower, exploring her mouth with confident thoroughness, as if they had all the time in the world. Gradually, he increased the intensity, his mouth sliding this way and that, angling his head to find the perfect fit. Then, before she had any idea what he truly wanted, he coaxed her lips to part so he could slide his tongue inside. He dipped and sipped, licked and pressed, teasing her in ways that made her thoughts turn to ash. Her fingers opened and closed spasmodically against the fine wool of his coat, and she rocked up onto her toes to get more. He chuckled low in his throat as he slowly eased away, leaving her momentarily confused and bereft, her body keenly aware of the abrupt loss of pleasure. His eyes gleamed like gold coins. "You taste every bit as sweet as you look, my dear." He skimmed the back of one finger over her cheek. "Maybe this bargain we're making won't be such a bad one after all.”

“He didn't pay any attention to anything but the white-and-silver girl down in front. She belonged here; she was like something holy, like one of the altar candles, like an angel. He didn't pay any attention to the altar. There were priests up there chanting the litany; their white-and-gold benediction vestments draped over the red velvet chairs. There was a choir of seminarians singing. Singing the responses. Their faces were foreign like the town; brown Mexican faces, somber, and their voices, unaccompanied were like a heaven choir. He didn't care about that. He hadn't come here to pray; he'd come with a gun to keep his eye on a rat. He wasn't going to be sucked in by holiness.”

“He didn’t proselytize at the get-togethers,” Otis recalled. “His talks with us dealt with standing together, respecting our traditions, defending our communities, treating our women with love and care, being responsible toward our children and not taking abuse from the racists in our society.” (On Malcolm X)”

“He didn't really care if they felt that way or not: he just needed them to say it, he needed to feel that something lay beneath their imperturbable calm, that somewhere within them ran a thin stream of quick, cool water, teeming with delicate lives, minnows and grasses and tiny white flowers, all tender and easily wounded and so vulnerable you couldn't see them without aching for them.”

“He didn't reprimand Damen. He didn't seem particularly displeased with barbaric behavior, as long as it was directed outward. Like a man who enjoys owning an animal who will rake others with its claws but eat peacefully from his own hand, he was giving his pet a great deal of license. As a result, courtiers kept one eye on Damen, giving him a wide berth. Laurent used that to his advantage, using the propensity of courtiers to fall back in reaction to Damen's presence as a means of extricating himself smoothly from conversation. The third time this happened Damen said, 'Shall I make a face at the ones you don't like, or is it enough to just look like a barbarian?”