“Black is a girl's best friend.”
“Raven: "Don't you notice that?"
Alexander: "Notice what?"
Raven: "The girls?"
Alexander: "What girls?"
Raven: "Hello! You were worried about bringing me to a bar when all along I should have been concerned about bringing you."
Alexander: "I don't know what you are talking about."
Raven: "The girls are drooling all over you!"
Alexander: "Well, there is only one girl I want to be with and she's right here.”
“Then how about one kiss?' he said with a sexy grin. 'Something to remember me by?'
'I’ll give you something to remember me by,' I said. The back of my head.' I pushed past him and escaped through the door to freedom.”
“That's what my mother doesn't understand about my lipstick and dark clothes. I don't wear tattoos to freak her out; I wear them because I have to. It's me.”
“Aunt Libby: "I think I'm getting married! I've been dying to tell you."
Raven: "You are? Congrats! Dad didn't mention..."
Aunt Libby: "Well, okay, it's not official or anything. In fact, we haven't officially gone out yet. I just met him last night.”
“Raven: "You don't have a hot date, do you?"
Alexander: "Yes. I do, as a matter of fact."
Raven: "You do?"
Alexander: "Yes, and it is almost ending.”
“This club is for members only. But once you join, membership lasts for an eternity.”
“I hope you enjoyed your visit. You never know. You may want to join forever.”
“I'll give you something to remember ME by... The back of my head!”
“Hoooodor," said Hodor, swaying. "Hooooooodor, hoooooodor, hoDOR, hoDOR, hoDOR." Sometimes he liked to do this, just saying his name different ways, over and over and over.”
“I didn't want to leave things the way we had, unresolved, ... and tried to tell myself he cared about me enough not to look elsewhere for what I wasn't giving him.”
“When Seymour and I were five and three, Les and Bessie played on the same bill for a couple of weeks with Joe Jackson -- the redoubtable Joe Jackson of the nickel-plated trick bicycle that shone like something better than platinum to the very last row of the theater. A good many years later, not long after the outbreak of the Second World War, when Seymour and I had just recently moved into a small New York apartment of our own, our father -- Les, as he'll be called hereafter -- dropped in on us one evening on his way home from a pinochle game. He quite apparently had held very bad cards all afternoon. He came in, at any rate, rigidly predisposed to keep his overcoat on. He sat. He scowled at the furnishings. He turned my hand over to check for cigarette-tar stains on my fingers, then asked Seymour how many cigarettes he smoked a day. He thought he found a fly in his highball. At length, when the conversation -- in my view, at least -- was going straight to hell, he got up abruptly and went over to look at a photograph of himself and Bessie that had been newly tacked up on the wall. He glowered at it for a full minute, or more, then turned around, with a brusqueness no one in the family would have found unusual, and asked Seymour if he remembered the time Joe Jackson had given him, Seymour, a ride on the handle bars of his bicycle, all over the stage, around and around. Seymour, sitting in an old corduroy armchair across the room, a cigarette going, wearing a blue shirt, gray slacks, moccasins with the counters broken down, a shaving cut on the side of his face that I could see, replied gravely and at once, and in the special way he always answered questions from Les -- as if they were the questions, above all others, he preferred to be asked in his life. He said he wasn't sure he had ever got off Joe Jackson's beautiful bicycle.”
“What was that all about?" Jay asked in loud whisper.
She still felt like her head was reeling. She had no idea what she was going to tell to Grady when school was out. "I think Grady just asked me to Homecoming," she announced to Jay.
He looked at her suspiciously. "The game?"
Violet cocked her head to the side and gave him a look that told him to be serious.
"No, I'm pretty sure he meant the dance," Violet clarified, exasperated by the obtuse question.”
“Hush. Don't ask any questions. It's always best on these occasions to do what the mob do."
"But suppose there are two mobs?" suggested Mr. Snodgrass.
"Shout with the largest," replied Mr. Pickwick.
Volumes could not have said more.”
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