Tell me we’re not going to be stoking up the cook fires to build palisades through the night by their light.’ I stood, turning as I spoke.Gravely, he said, ‘You’re not going to be stoking the cook fires and building palisades through the night by their light.’Something was wrong with Lupus. He had never in his life made a joke, and his eyes were not laughing; quite the reverse.
Mr. Brundy," she said with a nod, making the most perfunctory of curtsies to her father's guest.He made no move to take her hand, but merely bowed and responded in kind. "Lady 'elen.""My name is Helen, Mr. Brundy," she said coldly."Very well- 'elen," said Mr. Brundy, surprised and gratified at being given permission, and on such short acquaintance, to dispense with the use of her courtesy title.
So I picked the book up and did my usual 123 test. I don't bother reading the blurb on the back, or the first page - the writer's obviously going to be trying their hardest there, aren't they? It's how they're getting on by page 123 that's the real test. If they're crap at writing or bored with their story then you can bet they won't be making any effort at all by that point.
As I stepped onto the gloomy landing a word formed in my mind: two syllables, starts with a V and rhymes with dire. I froze in place. Nightingale said that everything was true, after a fashion, and that had to include vampires, didn’t it? I doubted they were anything like they were in books and on TV, and one thing was for certain — they absolutely weren’t going to sparkle in the sunlight.
THAT'S IT!" Terminus cried. "That's AGAINST THE RULES!"Polybotes frowned, obviously confused that he was being told off by a statue. "What are you?" he growled. "Shut up!"He pushed the statue over and turned back to Percy."Now I'm MAD!" Terminus shrieked. "I'm strangling you. Feel that? Those are my hands around your neck, you big bully. Get over here! I'm going to head-butt you so hard--
it seems to me that the English aristocracy is not only the type, but is the crown and flower of all actual aristocracies; it has all the oligarchical virtues as well as all the defects. It is casual, it is kind, it is courageous in obvious matters; but it has one great merit that overlaps even these. The great and very obvious merit of the English aristocracy is that nobody could possibly take it seriously.
If you knew how many hidden depths I had your pretty eyes would pop right out of your winsome face. Not literally of course - that would be disgusting. I wouldn’t envy the man who had to clean up a pair of popped eyes, especially given the state of this deck. I’m not sure we even have any cleaning products that work for popped eyes, although I suppose a general viscera cleaner would do the trick.
Mr. Alexander Graham Bell claims to have invented [photophone transmitter], though really it was created through a collaborative effort with Mr. Charles Sumner Tainter. In all honesty,” she said, “a great inventor needs a healthy amount of conceit. Mr. Bell and, fellow inventor, Mr. Edison would declare they’d created the moon and the tides between them if they could get away with the claim.
The Jardin Massey looked dismal today, rain lashed and deserted. She watched a bedraggled pigeon, feathers puffed out, sheltering beneath a branch.She'd never made a will, never considered whether she'd rather her body was buried or burnt to grey powder. And where would she want to be buried - in a French graveyard, gaudy with plastic flowers? If she made a will, could she state an aversion to plastic?
I need to know, Hannah. Why did you fucking leave?” His brutal tone is clear as his fingers trace their way up my thigh and skim over the silk material of my underwear. I push my pelvis towards him; I need his fingers in me now. He has different ideas, trying to tease an answer out of me, and my invitation for more contact is ignored. If there is any chance of me having what I want, I need to answer him.
He kept one eye on Matt as he talked. He could tell Matt was close to orgasm by the way he title his head to the side and bit his lower lip. "And what about your partner, Mr. Tucker?" Troy asked. Chris raised his eyebrows in surprise and Mr. Waters gave him a greasy, unpleasant smile. "Does your partner cook?"Chris grinned as Matt came all over the red leather seat. "Actually, he makes a delicious white sauce.
Baumauer sits at home in silence in the evenings planning how to impress his rigidly strict father who’s in his late seventies, but who still enforces the same dynamic between himself and his three, guilt-ridden sons as he did when they were children: he keeps one as his favourite and two as his levers, and he plays them off one another like a champion billiard’s master with stubborn, wrinkly hands.
There's a Polar BearIn our Frigidaire--He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.With his seat in the meatAnd his face in the fishAnd his big hairy pawsIn the buttery dish,He's nibbling the noodles,And munching the rice,He's slurping the soda,He's licking the ice.And he lets out a roarIf you open the door.And it gives me a scareTo know he's in there--That Polary BearIn our Fridgitydaire.
Look, Laszlo. I'll have the dentist with me, and I don't want to alarm her any more than necessary. So take Vanna out of the backseat and stick her in the trunk."Shanna halted. Her mouth dropped open. Her throat seized up, making it hard to breathe.I don't care how much crap you have in the trunk. We're not driving around with a naked body in the car."Oh no! She gasped for air. He was a hit man.
Then there were the shabti, magical figurines that were supposed to come to life when summoned. A few months ago, I’d fallen for a girl named Zia Rashid, who’d turned out to be a shabti. Falling in love for the first time had been hard enough. But when the girl you like turns out to be ceramic and cracks to pieces before your eyes—well, it gives “breaking your heart” a new meaning.
