You think I'm going to ask these sweet 14 year olds to ask their parents to buy a $100 ticket then run around in latex and lip sync? No way.
Reformed rakes make the best husbands,"Violet said. "Rubbish and you know it. " -Anthony to Violet
When a man writes a romance, the woman dies. When a woman writes one, it ends all tidy and sweet.
I‟m going to kill her,” Francesca said to no one in particular. Which was probably a good thing, as there was no one else present. “Who are you talking to?” Hyacinth demanded. “God,” Francesca said baldly. “And I do believe I have been given divine leave to murder you. ” “Hmmph,” was Hyacinth‟s response. “If it was that easy, I‟d have asked permission to eliminate half the ton years ago. ” Francesca decided just then that not all of Hyacinth‟s statements required a rejoinder. In fact, few of them did.
Rehearsels, actually. " "Rehearsals?" "For the-" Oh,no. "-musicale. " The Smythe-Smith musical. It finished off what the Crusades had begun. There wasn't a man alive who could maintain a romantic thought when faced with the memory-or the threat-of a Smythe-Smith musicale.
But she was already in. Gareth couldn't help but stand back in admiration. Hyacinth Bridgerton was clearly a natural born athlete. Either that or a cat burglar.
Daphne," he said with controlled gentleness, "what is wrong?" She sat down opposite him and placed a hand on his cheek. "I'm so insensitive," she whispered. "I should have known. I should never have said anything. " "Should have known what?" he ground out. Her hand fell away. "That you can't—that you couldn't—" "Can't what?" She looked down at her lap, where her hands were attempting to wring each other to shreds. "Please don't make me say it," she said. 'This," Simon muttered, "has got to be why men avoid marriage.
I think I like about coming-of-age stories is that there's everything in them. It's a genre that kind of contains everything: you have the chronicle, you can go into naturalism, but it's also about transforming physically, so it's kind of a fantastical genre.
It is often said that my heart is too open for my own good.
Don't be upset. Don't listen to me. I only meant that I am jealous of a dark, unconscious element, something irrational, unfathomable. I am jealous of your toilet articles, of the drops of sweat on your skin, of the germs in the air you breathe which could get into your blood and poison you. And I am jealous of Komarovsky, as if he were an infectious disease. Someday he will take you away, just as certainly as death will someday separate us. I know this must seem obscure and confused, but I can't say it more clearly. I love you madly, irrationally, infinitely.
The reality consists only of now, the present. It has nothing to do with the past and nothing to do with the future. It is so concentrated in this moment that if you can be in this moment, all that you are seeking and searching will be fulfilled. This moment is the door to the divine.