Och, they suit you, Queenie! Promise me you'll wear them.
Looking up at the stars and smoking in silence.
The wave of memory had submerged me for a whole minute, while I'd just sat staring and let it all come flooding back.
Inspector Milne's suspicious prying appeared to have awakened her inner Bolshevik, and so I discovered my own lady mother is not above quietly circumventing the law.
I ken who you are! You're Strathfearn's granddaughter. Julie Stuart, is it? Och, aye, Lady Julia! Well then, Lady Julia, tell me -- who don't you deserve a glass of water?
She gave a low and delighted chuckle. Her eyes were black as a moonless December night and reflected the electric lights like stars.
I mean, we are all in it together. None of us is innocent; none of us is alone.You were both.
The soaring mountains rose around her, and the poets’ waters glittered beneath her in the valleys of memory—hosts of golden daffodils, Swallows and Amazons, Peter Rabbit. She
Driving like a man is one of her few foibles.
How did you ever get here, Maddie Brodatt?'Second to the right, and then straight on till morning,' she answered promptly-it did feel like Neverland.Crikey, am I so obviously Peter Pan?Maddie laughed....
Hope—you think of hope as a bright thing, a strong thing, sustaining. But it’s not. It’s the opposite. It’s simply this: lumps of stale bread stuck down your shirt. Stale gray bread eked out with grou...
Wait and hope, as I did while they took your arm off. I held my hand over your heart all through that final morning, so I could warn the surgeon of its faltering.Did it falter?Not once. Nor will it fa...
The Cup That Cheers
It was a nightmare I could never really define, to have so many people packed around me and not be able to communicate with any of them unless they felt like it.
Writing to you like this makes me feel that you are still alive. It’s an illusion I’ve noticed before—words on a page are like oxygen to a petrol engine, firing up ghosts. It lasts only while the word...
Which would you rather have––an unlimited supply of Chanel No. 5, or freedom?
That's why we like to make things pretty; it's just'cause we're so dang sick of cleaning up horrible messes. Same instinct
Lucky for me I didn’t know. Why lucky for her? Not lucky for the people she was protecting, but lucky for Róża. She didn’t have to choose.
Ellen looked around the room with an odd expression, for the first few seconds not taking in the collection spread across the tables, but just taking in the library: the smell of ink and foxy paper an...
Von Linden really should know me well enough by now to realize that I am not going to face my execution without a fight. Or with anything remotely resembling dignity.
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