“Good and bad; shade and sunlight, there's but a hair's breath between them. It's all one in the end.”
“My daughter," I said blankly. "I see. Correct me if I am wrong, but I thought
it took a man, as well as a woman, to make a child. Is this infant's father to
be a crab, or a seagull maybe? Or were you planning to shipwreck some likely
sailor on my doorstep, so I can make convenient use of him?”
“Later I stirred again, knowing the night was passing, but unwilling to wake fully lest this fair vision be lost forever. There was an arm across me, holding the cloak around me; and the same old blanket covered the two of us. Darragh lay behind me, his body curled neatly against my own, his living warmth a part of me, his slow peaceful breathing steady against my hair. I kept quite still. I did not allow myself to return to full consciousness. I thought, if it all ended right now, I wouldn’t mind a bit. Let it end now, so I need never wake. And I slipped back into sleep.”
“Goodbye Curly. I'll see you next summer. Keep out of trouble, now, until I come back.”
“Man sets his hand to games of power and influence, he quests for far horizons and wealth beyond imagining. He thinks to own what cannot be possessed. He hews the ancient trees to broaden his grazing lands; he mines the deep caves and topples the standing stones. He embraces a new faith with fervor and, perhaps, with sincerity. But he grows ever further from the old things. He can no longer hear the heartbeat of the earth, his mother. He cannot smell the change in the air; he cannot see what lies beyond the veil of shadows. Even his new god is formed in his own image, for do they not call him the son of man? By his own choice he is cut adrift from the ancient cycles of sun and moon, the ordered passing of the seasons. And without him, the Fair Folk dwindle and are nothing. They retreat and hide themselves, and are reduced to the clurichaun with his little ale jug; the brownie who steals the cow's milk at Samhain; the half-heard wailing of the banshee. They become no more than a memory in the mind of a frail old man; a tale told by a crazy old woman.”
“O que existe entre nós está para além do amor, Fainne. Ele é meu marido, meu amante e amigo, aquele a quem eu posso confiar os meus maiores segredos. Espero que um dia também tu tenhas a alegria de encontrar um parceiro assim, pois nada é mais importante.”
“Maybe I should let my faithful manservant answer the rest of your questions, since he seems to have all the answers."
"I'm saving her time," Bodie replied. "She brings you a redhead, you'll give her grief. Look for women with class, Annabelle. That's most important. The sophisticated types who went to boarding schools and speak French. She has to be the real thing because he can spot a phony a mile away. And he likes them athletic."
"Of course he does," she said dryly. "Athletic, domestic, gorgeous, brilliant, socially connected, and pathologically submissive. It'll be a snap."
"You forgot hot." Heath smiled. "And defeatist thinking is for losers. If you want to be a success in this world, Annabelle, you need a positive attitude. Whatever the client wants, you get it for him. First rule of a successful business."
"Uh-huh. What about career women?"
"I don't see how that would work."
"The kind of potential mate you're describing isn't going to be sitting around waiting for her prince to show up. She's heading a major corporation. In between those Victoria's Secret modeling gigs."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Attitude, Annabelle. Attitude.”
“Our New Year “Let’s go down the disco” experience, with the aid of Charlie Horse and Teddy as partners, was actually quite good fun on the funosity scale.”
“He hunted with his groin but couldn't find her.”
“Breath of the winds; dancing flame; peace of the earth; song of the waves.”
“Was Luther crazy? Perhaps. But if he was, our prayer is that God would send to this earth an epidemic of such insanity that we too may taste of the righteousness that is by faith alone.”
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