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S Quotes

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All S Quotes

“She spun away from him and raced into the house toward her room to avoid an uncomfortable discussion. And as she flopped back on her bed and stared at the ceiling, she finally confronted the awful, alarming, dreadful, and entirely horrifying possibility that she had been rejecting all day. Though she could hardly accept it, she could no longer deny it. She was pretty sure Mr. Rodman was the King of Wands.”

“She squeezed her eyes shut and stopped resisting. She fell into his arms, where he held her gently for a heartbeat then sighed. She thought of Val again. For all her dragging and pulling and demanding, all their ways their bodies had come into contact—and conflict—with each other over the years, Val had never given herself to Veronyka like this. Never offered herself at all. With Val, everything was take, take, take.”

“She squinted at me. "What's a sexlebrity?" "You know, a celebrity you'd have sex with if ever given the opportunity. No strings attached and your significant other can't get mad at you. Like, if Idris Elba showed up right this minute, you could rip off all your clothes and do it right here on this sturdy desk, and no one could judge you for it." I patted the mahogany surface with gusto...”

“She squints into the distance, this young woman who looks strong but who statistics say is still too vulnerable to violence and abuse and infection. I want her to triumph because she deserves to. I know that countless people are working ferociously to find cures, solutions, innovations, outreach, to marshal every weapon against HIV. I know all that and try to remember it. But I also know the numbers. So I see this young black woman looking into the distance, and I see her seeing that HIV is coming. It is still coming despite our best efforts and it is coming for her.”

“She stampeed. “I am making him run late.” She gave a resolution of exact 60 seconds to herself to see if she can find her diamond necklace or else she would attend the party with out it. She suddenly turned, as if her memory shouted out loud- Its on the chest right there! To her bewilderment, he was standing just a few inches away holding a big mirror in hand. That perplexed her. Not Adam. Not even the fact that her neck was already hosting the necklace. But seeing herself that way, her very own self. As if, she was unapprehended she existed. Adam was expecting a smile on her face, and that she would touch the necklace and say- “Oh my foolish self” but she touched her face and said- “Oh my self...” That was foolish!”

“She stands at the hairpin turn on Night Road. On either side of her, giant evergreens grow clustered together, rising high into the blue summer sky. Even now, in midday, this stubbled, winding ribbon of asphalt holds the morning mist close. This road is like her life; knee deep in shadow. Once, it had been the quickest way home and she’d taken it easily, turning onto its potholed surface without a second thought, rarely noticing how the earth dropped away on either edge. Her mind had been on other things back then, on the miniutae of everyday life. Chores. Errands. Schedules. She hadn’t taken this route in years. Just the thought of it had been enough to make her turn the steering wheel too sharply; better to go off the road than to find herself here. Or so she’d thought until today. People on the island still talk about what happened in the summer of ’04. They sit on barstools and in porch swings and spout opinions, half truths, making judgments that aren’t theirs to make. They think a few columns in a newspaper give them the facts they need. But the facts are hardly what matter. If anyone sees her here, just standing on this lonely roadside in a gathering mist, it will all come up again. Like her, they’ll remember that night, so long ago, when the rain turned to ash….”

“She stands on the cliffs, near the old crumbling stone house. There's nothing left in the house but an upturned table, a ladle, and a clay bowl. She stands for more than an hour, goose-bumped and shivering. At these times, she won't confide in me. She runs her hands over her body, as if checking that it's still there, her heart pulsing and beating. The limbs are smooth and strong, thin and sinewy, her hair long and black and messy and gleaming despite her age. You wouldn't know it to look at her, that she's lived long enough to look for what's across the water. Eighty years later, and she is still fifteen.”

“She stands there until she realizes she is waiting. Waiting for someone to help. To come and fix the mess she's in. But no one is coming. No one remembers, and if she resigns herself to waiting, she will wait forever. So she walks. And as she walks, she studies Paris. Makes note of this house, and that road, of bridges, and carriage horses, and the gates of a garden. Glimpses roses beyond the wall, beauty in the cracks.”

“She stared after him, her eyes widening when his plaid suddenly dropped to pool around his feet. He then tugged his shirt off over his head, bent to grab up the heavy plaid and strode into the water carrying both. Claray knew she should turn away, but couldn't seem to manage that as her eyes slid over his wide, muscular back and then down to the round curves of his derriere. They stopped there briefly before moving on to his strong thighs, and shapely calves. Claray had never thought she would call a man beautiful, but Conall was, and she found herself fascinated by the play of muscles in his back, buttocks and legs as he moved.”

“She stared at her mother's hat resting so quiet and rich on top of her parent's closet. It had a soft brown velvet brim ad white feathers were peeking out brown with dots and that hat was amazing because it stayed so solid and fixed to the shelf and yet the girl thought the feathers made it seem as if it could just fly away when she wasn't looking and if it really wanted to. Anyway, maybe the hat had thoughts of its own or could absorb all the thoughts and made-up stories of the person who wore the hat and keep them under the velvet brim and hide them in between the soft feathers as if they were eggs and keep them warm until they escaped.”

“She stared at her own window. She thought of herself in her root life, hovering between life and death in her bedroom — equidistant, as it were. And, for the first time, Nora worried about herself as if she was actually someone else. Not just another version of her, but a different actual person. As though finally, through all the experiences of life she now had, she had become someone who pitied her former self. Not in self-pity, because she was a different self now.”

“She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were dark, almost black, filled with pain. She'd let someone do that to her. She'd known all along she felt things too deeply. She became attached. She didn't want a lover who could walk away from her, because she could never do that - love someone completely and survive intact if her left her.”

“She stared at Peter, and she realized that in that one moment, when she hadn't been thinking, she knew exactly what he'd felt as he moved through the school with his backpack and his guns. Every kid in this school played a role: jock, brain, beauty, freak. All Peter had done was what they all secretly dreamed of: be someone, even for just nineteen minutes, who nobody else was allowed to judge.”

“She stared at the bullwhip coiled Indiana Jones-style at his narrow waist, then at the black-handled dagger sheathed on his right hip. An obsidian rapier--Fae-forged and unbreakable--almost merged with one of the taped seams that ran down the sides of his pants. He even wore a dagger gunslinger-style at his hip. Dear Goddess, the man was a walking arsenal, but he was sexy as hell.”

“She stared critically at her reflection in the mirror above her dressing table, studying her features in a way she had never done before. Lifting her chin, she looked first this way then that, trying to identify what it was Lord Harte saw in her as desirable. She was so dreadfully ordinary. Medium brown hair parted in the middle. Muted gray eyes that did not snap with determination and intelligence like Emma's or glitter with mystery and excitement like Portia's. A straight nose with a base she always thought was a bit too wide. A common enough chin, cheekbones that were nicely defined, and rather straight brown eyebrows beneath a high forehead.”