Twenty years and $40 billion. They seem like good round numbers.
Everyone has secrets. Especially me.
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.
Your pain has a purpose. Your problems, struggles, heartaches, and hassles cooperate toward one end-the glory of God.
I don't know a single collector or museum director who says: 'Oh, he's on a list, so I think I'll buy something of his. ' The people who buy my art put a little more thought into it than that.
My parents wanted me to solace them for sorrows they denied having had.
Probably no strychnine has sent as many husbands into their graves as mealtime scolding has, and nothing has driven more men into the arms of other women as the sound of a shrill whine at table.