A Quote by Markus Zusak
When she faced the noise, she found the mayor’s wife in a brand-new bathrobe and slippers. On the breast pocket of the robe sat an embroidered swastika. Propaganda even reached the bathroom.
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I had a friend, Melissa, who was 28 years old. She was my best friend's wife, and she was my wife's best friend. She died of breast cancer. When she passed away back in 2004 was the last time I cried.
She reached into her coat pocket and felt two things she hadn't expected.... One was a wad of cash... she brought out the money. Leo whistled. "Allowance? Piper, your mom rocks!
In the secret pocket, she often kept a small pocket dictionary, which she would take out whenever she encountered a word she did not know.
When Rae got back, she spread her empty hands wide and said "Okay, guess where I hid it." She even turned around for me, but I couldn't see a bulge big enough to hide a flashlight. With a grin, she reached down the front of her shirt into the middle of her bra, and pulled out a flashlight with flourish. I laughed. "Cleavage is great," she said. "Like an extra pocket.
She was standing in the airport of Copenhagen, staring at a doorway, trying to figure out if it was (a) a bathroom and (b) what kind of bathroom it was. The door merely said H. Was she an H? Was H "hers"? It could just as easily be "his". Or "Helicopter Room: Not a Bathroom at All
When I was at Valencia my wife said that we would win the league. She was right and to mark the occasion she asked me for a new watch. I bought her the watch, but then she said that we would win the UEFA Cup and that when we did she wanted another watch. Now she says that we will win the Champions League and that she will want an even more expensive watch. My wife has a lot of confidence and a lot of watches.
She watched him stop to pat the mayor on the back. He stumbled a little in the crowd, and his left hand disappeared ever so briefly inside the mayor’s tuxedo pocket. It was over in a flash, a blink, a second. And Macey was quite certain she was the only person in the entire room to have seen it, but that was just as well. At least, Macey had seen enough. And at last, the boy made sense." — Double Crossed by Ally Carter
She reached into the pocket of her dress and threw the small stack of bills at him. They fluttered to the ground like broken dreams. "I hope you choke on every penny." "Pick that up." She drew back her arm and slapped him as hard as she could.
Thing was' he faced them, and Harry was astonished to see that he was grinning, 'they bit of a bit more than they could chew with Gran. Little old witch living alone, they probably think they didn't need to send anyone particularly powerful. Anyway' Neville laughed, 'Dawlish is still in St Mungo's and Gran is on the run. She sent me a letter,' he clapped a hand to the breast pocket of his robes, 'telling me she was proud of me, that I'm my parents' son, and to keep it up
She sat leaning back in her chair, looking ahead, knowing that he was as aware of her as she was of him. She found pleasure in the special self-consciousness it gave her. When she crossed her legs, when she leaned on her arm against the window sill, when she brushed her hair off her forehead - every movement of her body was underscored by a feeling the unadmitted words for which were: Is he seeing it?
She thought about how marvelous is would be to have a wife keeping the house in order, the meals on the table. At the same time it seemed ridiculously unfair that she could never have a wife. In fact, if she married, she would be expected to be the wife.
Occasionally I play the music for my mother when she demands to hear it and she always just says, 'Who is that singing? I don't like the singing.' And then she says 'Who's doing all that bumpety-bump noise?' It's all noise backing up horrible singing as far as she's concerned. She's not a show-biz mother.
She went right down into her own personal experience for everything, reached down and pulled something out of herself that was unique and extraordinary. She had no techniques. It was all the truth, it was only Marilyn. But it was Marilyn, plus. She found things, found things about womankind in herself.
When her hands reached out and poured the tea, it was as if she also poured something into me while I sat there sweating in my cab. It was like she held a string and pulled on it just slightly to open me up. She got in, put a piece of herself inside me, and left again.
As ugly an admission as this is, I met my wife at a party, and if I had been to the same party and she were dressed in different clothes, I might never have talked to her. She might have projected something that I found distasteful, even if she otherwise looked exactly the same - a beautiful woman to me.
I actually thought when I met Tina, my former wife, that she was White. Later I found out that she wasn't, and she was actually very much in-tune with her Blackness.
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