Han spotted a child‟s homespun dolly in the ditch, pressed into the mud. He reined in, meaning to climb down and fetch it so he could clean it up for his little sister. Then he remembered that Mari was dead and had no need of dollies anymore. Grief was like that. It gradually faded into a dull ache, until some simple sight or sound or scent hit him like a hammer blow.
But maybe it's better to go after something, and not get it, than to not even try.
Nobody's going to hand you anything. You don't get what you don't go after.
Just remember who you are... The world will try to change you into someone else. Don't let them. That's the best advice anyone can give you.
Ellen could have killed me," Jack said quietly, "but she didn't. She saved my life." "How come?" Fitch demanded. "After all this?" Ellen turned scarlet and stared at the ground. "Maybe none of my opponents ever gave me flowers before," she mumbled.
Don't expect much and you won't be disappointed.
Will you give the girl to me?" she said. "Will you let me try?" He nodded, dizzy with relief. "Please, Willo. Please. Save her. It doesn't matter...what happens to me.
He's not lazy. He's just highly inefficient.
I'd rather have a go at life, so there's something to talk about once we're gone.
I have lost everything, Han thought. Then he corrected himself. Every time I think I’ve lost everything, I find there’s still something else to lose.
We may all end up dead, but we're sticking it to them in the meantime.
How'd it go with Leesha?" "It was great! We were bad cop and bad cop!
And, like a fool, she kissed him back. Kissed him a way that would leave no doubt about the way she felt about him. Kissed him because she knew the chances were slim she'd have very many kisses like that in her lifetime. Which is a sad thing when you're only seventeen.
My tagline is ‘Less sex, more romance, lower body count.’
A fiction writer is never entirely alone. Her characters are constantly whispering in her ear.
You couldn’t keep your mouth shut? I’m calling you Glitterhair from now on. Or Talksalot.
A vocation is not something you slap on, like a coat of paint, and change whenever you want. A vocation is built into you. You have no choice. If you try to do something else, you fail.
His aster-blue eyes shown out from a face blackened by bruises and soot, his fair hair glittering in the firelight. Dressed all in black, silhouetted against flame, he looked rather like a demon, raised from the dead, trading for souls on the other side.
If he even survives." She shivered, and Amon put his arm around her, drawing her into his steady warmth. "It's that bad?" Raisa nodded. "He looked...he looked awful, Amon. Willo doesn't know if he'll...She's worried about him. My mother died, and I never got to tell her that I loved her, that I finally understood - just a little anyway. If Han dies too, I don't know what I'll do.
Admit nothing - that was his first rule. Appeal to logic - second rule. Delay the inevitable - third rule.
Weird is good, strange is bad.
Crow walked toward her, arms outstretched like a man in a dream, which he was, in a way. Sometimes a dream is enough.
It was a peculiar marriage of interests- Lord Averill and Captain Byrne and Lord Bayar and Han Alister agreeing on anything was as rare as gold in Ragmarket.
Like a stand of lodgepole pines in a gale Raisa's followers all went down leaving her standing alone....There's no shelter for me not from any of this. I'll stand alone the rest of my life. THE GRAY WOLF THRONE p. 163
More and more, there were no revelations, but simply the uncovering of truths long known but dimly remembered. Everything had been written long ago. There was nothing truly new in the world, but only the slow, circular march of time that revealed the old things once again.
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