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W Quotes

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All W Quotes

“What the hell is going on?” Bricker asked with amazement as they watched Victor carry Elvi out. “First Basil’s carrying Sherry away, and then Marcus is carting a blubbering Basha off, and now Elvi’s sobbing to beat the band and Victor is playing he-man too. Have the women gone crazy or is this an immortal caveman convention?” Lucian reached out and biffed the younger man in the back of the head. “Ow,” Bricker complained, rubbing the spot.”

“What the hell is going on?" demanded Kami's dad, advancing with his black eyes snapping. Jared blurted, "My intentions are honourable." Kami sat up straight in her bed and stared in Jared's direction. "Are you completely crazy?" she wanted to know. "This isn't the eighteenth century. How do you think that's going to help?" "Well, I mean," Jared said, back against the wall like a cornered animal. "When we're older. I mean-" "Please shut up," Kami begged. "I agree with Kami," said Dad. "When you're in an abyss-like hole, quit digging.”

“What the hell is that?' Cassian was grinning that next evening as he waved a hand toward the pile of pine boughs dumped on the ornate red rug in the centre of the foyer. 'Solstice decorations. Straight from the market.' Snow clung to his broad shoulders and dark hair, and his tan cheeks were flushed with cold. 'You call that a decoration? He smirked. 'A heap of pine in the middle of the floor is Night Court tradition.' I crossed my arms. 'Funny.' 'I'm serious.' I glared, and he laughed. 'It's for the mantels, the banister, and whatever else, smartass. Want to help?' He shrugged off his heavy coat, revealing a black jacket and shirt beneath, and hung it in the hall closet. I remained where I was and tapped my foot. 'What?' he said, brows rising. It was rare to see Cassian in anything but his Illyrian leathers, but the clothes, while not as fine as anything Rhys or Mor usually favoured, suited him. 'Dumping a bunch of trees at my feet is really how you say hello these days? A little time in that Illyrian camp and you forget all your manners.' Cassian was on me in a second, hoisting me off the ground to twirl me until I was going to be sick. I beat at his chest, cursing at him. Cassian set me down at last. 'What did you get me for Solstice?' I smacked his arm. 'A heaping pile of shut the hell up.' He laughed again, and I winked at him. 'Hot cocoa or wine?' Cassian curved a wing around me, turning us toward the cellar door. 'How many good bottles does little Rhysie have left?”

“What the hell? Oh, that's right. It's the first Monday of the school year, so of course, Emma's beating the shit out of someone." "Hector — come on and help me pry her off Helena," said Arnold anxiously. "Oh, so that's who she's thrashing," Hector mused. "I should have recognized her solid gold pumps. Finally, someone who deserves it." "It doesn't matter if she deserves it or not," Arnold said in exasperation. "If the Principal or the teachers see her doing this..." "Fine," Hector sighed. "But she better not kick me in the balls again, like last time.”

“What the hell’s the matter with you men? Are you cowards as well as stupid? You boys make me sick. I’m done with you. You hear me? I want you to go back to your places now and stay with your children until I say you’re needed. “Tell your wives and your older children to bring with them dish pans and cooking pots. Tell them to bring their stirring spoons and ladles. Tell them to carry a mop over their shoulders. We’re goin’ to march on that mine and we’re going to stand guard to see that no scabs are allowed in. Do you hear me?” — Mother Jones”

“What the hell time is it?" muttered the old man. He was always an aggressive sleeper. Sleep was one of the things he did best, and he loved it. Some look upon sleep as an unfortunate necessary interruption of life; but there are others who hold that sleep is life, or at least one of the more fulfilling aspects of it, like eating or sex. Any time my old man's sleep was interrupted, he became truly dangerous.”

“What the hell?" Too late, she remembered she was wearing her Iron Man bra, a red and gold mask covering each breast, silver eye slits glaring into the great beyond---or in this case, at the man who had dared take off her clothes. Liam barked a laugh. "Is that meant to scare dudes away?" "You know I like the Avengers." She shrugged. "I just wasn't expecting to be... sharing the visual." "So I see." His hands closed over her breasts. "I'm going to cover his eyes. I can't perform if Iron Man is watching." "Afraid you won't measure up?" "More like I'm afraid he might break down the door and take me out.”

“What the hell was that?” he asked no-one in particular. “Did they ram us?” “Uh – negative, sir.” Marnetti offered, reading an instrumental assessment from his display, “It seems we were hit by some kind of pulse wave generated by their jump.” “Their jump? – You mean by arriving they nearly killed us?” Marnetti nodded, continuing, “Range 0.5 kilometers, Captain. Holding steady. No recognized weapons activity.” “Damage report.” He ordered, feeling his way back into his seat, eyes glued to the viewscreen. “Shield 2 down, 1 is buckling.” Pluddeman choked. “Power stable, all systems holding steady,” Marnetti added, now rubbing some bruises. “Any communications?” “Nothing, sir. Static on all frequencies.” “What are they doing?” “Nothing, sir. Waiting maybe.” “Waiting, my ass!” Dayne barked. “They must be sizing us up!”

“What the horrors of war are, no one can imagine. They are not wounds and blood and fever, spotted and low, or dysentery, chronic and acute, cold and heat and famine. They are intoxication, drunken brutality, demoralization and disorder on the part of the inferior... jealousies, meanness, indifference, selfish brutality on the part of the superior.”

“What the house kept us, we kept. The buttonhooks, the cotton gin advertisement, the letters, the filthy lady's glove, gnarled and frozen in a claw, all of it were framed under glass, in shadow boxes, displayed in the parlor by the guest book. We even managed to save the silvery gilt of wallpaper and the peacock frieze we found like a gift under the brown and orange daisy paper in the hallway. Lost objects in a house are like memories tucked in the gray folds of our brains. They will resurface. Eventually, they will come back.”