“I will survive, Tracy thought. I face mine enemies naked, and my courage is my shield.”
“She undressed slowly, dreamily, and when she was naked, she selected a bright red negligee to wear so that the blood would not show.”
“We’re flimflam artists. But remember, sonny, you can’t con people unless they’re greedy to begin with. W. C. Fields had it right. You can’t cheat an honest man.”
“But there was not a police car in sight. Sure, Tracy thought in disgust. They’re never around when you need them.”
“How long a honeymoon are you planning?” Mrs. Stanhope inquired. “About fifty years,” Charles replied.”
“Soames screwed up his eyes; he seemed to see them sitting there. Ah! and the atmosphere—even now, of too many stuffs and washed lace curtains, lavender in bags, and dried bees’ wings. ‘No,’ he thought, ‘there’s nothing like it left; it ought to be preserved.’ And, by George, they might laugh at it, but for a standard of gentle life never departed from, for fastidiousness of skin and eye and nose and feeling, it beat to-day hollow—to-day with its Tubes and cars, its perpetual smoking, its cross-legged, bare-necked girls visible up to the knees and down to the waist if you took the trouble (agreeable to the satyr within each Forsyte but hardly his idea of a lady), with their feet, too, screwed round the legs of their chairs while they ate, and their “So longs,” and their “Old Beans,” and their laughter—girls who gave him the shudders whenever he thought of Fleur in contact with them; and the hard-eyed, capable, older women who managed life and gave him the shudders too. No! his old aunts, if they never opened their minds, their eyes, or very much their windows, at least had manners, and a standard, and reverence for past and future.”
“But hands are sacred things. Touch is personal, fingers of love, feelers of blind eyes, tongues of those who cannot talk…”
“Most girls prefer flowers over trees.' I brush my fingers on the petals." These orange flowers blossom quickly. Thay speak of passion. Of beauty." I take a witheting flower that had dropped to the ground and worry it between my fingers. "But they don't last; they wither so easily. Flowers have limited growth. A tree might not speak of passion but sturdiness. Yet it grows higher and lasts more. Some of these trees have been here before I was born and they'll be here once I'm gone.”
“PRUELLA GOODE 1891-1929 I’M DEAD. LET’S HAVE A PARTY. He”
“You’re in the Courtyard.
Whatever rules humans have for employers aren’t my rules unless I say they’re my rules.
So I can hire you even though you don’t have any idea what you’re doing, and I can fire you for having stinky hair!”
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