“He laughed, then became serious once more. "Mary............"
The expression in his eyes set her heart pounding. "Yes?"
Twice he began to frame a sentence, and twice his voice seemed to fail him.
And she thought she understood. What could he possibly say to her now, when he was on the verge of leaving forever? Even something as simple as asking her to write to him carried a distinct sort of promis, the type of promise he was ten years and a half a world removed from being able to make.
She forced a polite smile and held out her hand. "Good luck, James."
Regret-and relief-flooded his eyes. he took her hand, cradling it for a long moment. "And to you."
It was foolish to linger. She slid her fingers from his grasp, turned, and began to walk away in the direction of the Academy. She'd gone about thirty paces when she heard his voice.
"Mary!"
She spun about. "What is it?"
"Stay out of wardrobes!"
She laughed, shook her head, and began to walk again. She was smiling this time.”
“It's terrifying, to be on the verge of finally getting what you want.”
“Calmly, slowly, she reached behind with her left hand and came up against — yes, fabric. Fine linen, to be precise. So far, so good: she was inside a wardrobe, after all. The only problem was that this linen was oddly warm. Body warm. Beneath the tentative pressure of her palm, it seemed to be moving...
With terrifying suddenness, an ungloved hand clamped roughly over her nose and mouth. A long arm pinned her arms against her sides. She was held tightly against a hard, warm surface.
"Hush," whispered a pair of lips pressed to her left ear. "If you scream, we are both lost.”
“For several moments, Mary couldn't hear anything over the violent pounding of her pulse.”
“She hesitated for a moment longer, then tentatively placed her fingers in his. Her hand was hot and dry and so fragile-seeming that James cradled it gingerly. The next moment, she squeezed so hard his eyes widened.
Fragile lady be damned. He squeezed back spitefully. "Vicious minx.”
“It's terrifying to be on the verge of finally getting what you want.”
“¿Por qué la modestia nunca es uno de los atributos del héroe?”
“-¿No sabes qué decir? -parecía divertirse con la confusión que se reflejaba en su rostro.
-Sospecho que eres tú quien trata de dejarme sin nada que decir.”
“-¿Me deseas suerte para mi último día?
-Si utilizas la cabeza, no la necesitarás.”
“-No me lo prometas a mí, Cass. Prométetelo a ti misma.”
“He stopped in a seedy alley in Holborn where he jumped down from the carriage, held a muttered conference with a dirty, one-eyed old woman, and climbed back in, his arms full of grubby cloth.
She wrinkled her nose. "Phew. What the devil is all that?"
"It's a dress."
"Oh, no. I'm not putting that on. It stinks of last week's washing up."
"It smells of the people.”
“I tapped on the door, with all the power of a farting flea.”
“Ne možeš kontrolirati to tko ce te privuci. A ne možeš ni
kontrolirati koga tvoje srce želi.«”
“Faggots make the best friends," she said philosophically. "They're very loyal.”
“Could he be my Bertie, the cheeky butcher’s boy? I had walked out with him when I was a reluctant servant in Mr Buchanan’s household. Dear funny Bertie, who had been so self-conscious about reeking of meat. Bertie, the boy who had taken me to the fair and won me the little black-and-white china dog that was in my suitcase now, carefully wrapped in my nightgown to prevent any chips.”
“Even if you are a monk, like my brother, passion or slaughter will meet you someday. For you cannot survive as a monk if society does not exist. You renounce society, but to do so you must first be a part of if, learn your decision from it. This is the paradox of retreat. My brother entered temple life. He escaped the world and the world came after him. He was seventy when he was killed by someone, perhaps someone from the time when he was breaking free - for that is the difficult stage, when you leave the world.”
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