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H Quotes

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All H Quotes

“He wanted head and hands and arms on a pillow - in many different positions. I was asked to move my hands in many different ways - also my head - and I had to turn this way and that. There were nudes that might have been of several different people - sitting - standing - even standing upon the radiator against the window - that was difficult - radiators don't intend you to stand on top of them. (On being photographed by Alfred Stieglitz)”

“He wanted her- all of her. Not just the physical her, but her devotion, her love, her heart- all the essential her, the tangible intangible of her being, her self. He wanted it all- and he wasn't going to be satisfied with anything less. He knew why he wanted her, too. Why she was different. But he wasn't going to think about that. She was his. He'd known it the instant he'd held her in his arms, that first evening with the storm lowering about them. She'd fitted- and he'd known, instinctively, immediately, at some level deeper than his bones. He hadn't come by his name by accident; he had a gift for recognizing what scent was on the breeze. An instinctive hunter, he responded to shifts in the mood, the atmosphere, taking advantage of whatever current was flowing without a conscious thought. He'd known from the first just what was in the wind- known from the instant he'd held Patience Debbington in his arms.”

“He wanted her more than he'd wanted anything. And he knew that if - when? - he had her - gods, he couldn't think about being inside her without his body lurching to attention - he'd unleash the hunger that had slumbered in him for so long. She awoke all of it with an insistent ferocity that thrilled him with the anticipation of how he could please her. How he could tell her with his body everything he couldn't say out loud without making this impossible situation harder. She was the person he'd never expected to find. Not after centuries. Not after losing family so long ago that any kind of closeness with another had grown near impossible. 'Mo ghrá,' he murmured against her temple as she fell asleep.”

“He wanted her. The girl stood speechless before him, and Drake decided to have pity on her. She had, after all, saved his life. She was the one. His light. He recognized her in a way that was deeper even than her voice. "I beg your pardon. I haven't much to be happy about at present, but that has nothing to do with you." He smiled at her again and saw the light in her eyes change. She was so easy to read, so vulnerable and innocent. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen such open sweetness. "You have brought me back from the darkness, and for that I am forever in your debt. So come, tell me your name." Her hands hung, loosely clasped together, against the front of a plain dress, but her face- dear heaven, her face- was lavish extravagance and no amount of plain attire could detract from it.”

“He wanted her to look at him, just once, and know him the way she had before. It was cruel of him to want her to want him again. If she remembered, it would only hurt her more. He was still haunted by the last time he’d seen her with her memories. It had been right outside the Valory. Hours before, he’d felt her die in his arms. Evangeline had no idea what had happened, no clue that Jacks had already used the stones to turn back time for her. She was trying to talk him out of using them to go back to Donatella. She’d asked him to come with her instead. After everything, she’d still wanted him. Jacks had so badly wanted to tell her that he couldn’t even remember what Donatella looked like, that Evangeline’s face was the only one he saw whenever he closed his eyes, that he would go with her anywhere…if he could. But he couldn’t see her die again. His first fox had believed in him, and she had died, just like Evangeline would. There was only on way their story ended, and it wasn’t happy. Her hope might have been powerful, but it wasn’t magic. It wasn’t enough. It was better to hurt her, better to break her heart, to do whatever he needed to do, to keep her alive and to keep her away from him. That hadn’t changed. But today, Jacks was failing at letting her go. He wanted to keep her pressed to the floor beneath him. He would have set the world on fire and then let it all burn just to keep holding her like this.”

“He wanted her. He knew where to find her. He waited. It amused him to wait, because he knew that the waiting was unbearable to her. He knew that his absence bound her to him in a manner more complete and humiliating than his presence could enforce. He was giving her time to attempt an escape, in order to let her know her own helplessness when he chose to see her again.”

“He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects – beating mats with her head tied up in a bandana, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la Gummidge – and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a 'Bless that girl, what a torment she is!' (...)”

“He wanted me to know he thought I was getting away with something wrong. I thought about the time Billy was sick and said he wanted strawberries. How Paul asked him, "Do you want them cold or room temperature? Cooked down or raw? Narrow it down, because whatever you want, I'll get it for you." Anything Billy wanted, Paul got, whatever it took. And this pathetic excuse of a man had no idea what that kind of devotion meant, and he didn't deserve an answer. The denial of real love-- *that* was the perversion.”

“he wanted people to like his mind again-after awhile it might be such a nice place in which to live.”

“He wanted the teahouse to blend in with nature and become more of a backdrop for the tea ceremony, so he helped influence its redesign. Over time, the teahouse became a simple hut set in a garden with mud and plaster walls, a thatched roof, a bamboo lattice ceiling, tatami floors, and small paper-covered windows. It became a refuge in the city meant to echo a mountain retreat, where samurai from warring clans, lowly merchants, and even the emperor could come together on equal footing and focus on nothing more than the sensory pleasures of the tea ceremony, such as the gentle bubbling of the tea water on the brazier, the seasonal flower arrangement in the alcove, and the smell of the particular incense chosen to represent the time of year.”