Always take a compliment, Caroline. Always take it for the way it was intended. You girls are always so quick to twist what others say. Simply say thank you and move on.
Happy endings are all I can do. I wouldn't know how to write anything else.
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 call myself a labourer because I take pride in calling myself a spinner, weaver, farmer and scavenger.
I come down as an actor and my marks are already laid out on the floor - somebody else organized what I'm going to do. I think, why am I here? And why I'm here is to express the words with some sort of vague emotion and make them seem real. I wanted to go back to how it was before.
My father was a classical pianist, and my mother was a singer of just about everything.
To grasp the true meaning of socialism, imagine a world where everything is designed by the post office, even the sleaze.