A Quote by Karen Marie Moning
Dubh is do?" I was incredulous. It was no wonder I hadn't been able to find the stupid word. "Should I be calling pubs poos?" "Dubh is Gaelic, Ms. Lane. Pub is not.
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I grew up in pubs so my whole thing is 'the game happened,' people would go into the pub afterwards and discuss 'it should have been a penalty, he should have scored that.'
The two of you are getting downright chatty, aren't you, Ms. Lane? When did you last see him? what else did he tell you? I'm asking the questions tonight. If an illusion of control comforts you, Ms. Lane, by all means, cling to it.
Burns from dropped matches, Ms. Lane? Matches one might have dropped while flirting with a pernicious Fae, Ms. Lane? Have you any idea the value of this rug?” I didn’t think his nostrils could flare any wider. His eyes were black flame. “Pernicious? Good grief, is English your second language? Third?” Only someone who’d learned English from a dictionary would use such a word. “Fifth,” he snarled. “Answer me.
I know Australians are no strangers to pubs, but in the U.K., the pub is a real meeting place because the houses can be quite small, so the pub is an extension of the living space.
Ms. It sounds like a sick bumblebee, it sounds frigid. I mean, who the hell would ever want to stick his hand up the dress of somebody who goes around calling herself something like Ms.? It's all so stupid.
I like being able to go to a local pub and have great food and particularly love pubs that welcome my dogs.
Mac: "It's not the sidhe-seers." He stopped and went very still. JZB: "Who is it?" Mac: "The MacKeltars." He was silent a long moment. Then he began to laugh, softly. JZB: "Well played, Ms. Lane." Mac: "I had a good teacher." JZB: "The best. Hop on one foot, Ms. Lane." Mac and Barrons
Was he a good kisser, Ms. Lane?” Barrons asked, watching me carefully. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand at the memory. “It was like being owned.” Some women like that.” Not me.” Perhaps it depends on the man doing the owning.” I doubt it. I couldn’t breathe with him kissing me.” One day you may kiss a man you can’t breathe without, and find breath is of little consequence.” Right, and one day my prince might come.” I doubt he’ll be a prince, Ms. Lane. Men rarely are.
I heard there are no male sidhe-seers." Where did you hear that?" Around." And which one of those are you in doubt about Ms. Lane?" Which one of what?" Whether I see the Fae, or whether I'm a man. I believe I've laid your mind to rest on the former; shall I relieve it on the latter?" He reached for his belt. Oh, please." I rolled my eyes. "You're a leftie, Barrons." Touche, Ms. Lane," he murmered.
A lot of pubs in London are now faceless, expensive yuppy bars. Not like when I was growing up. The pub used to be, and should be, the pillar of community.
What are you Barrons?” “The one who will never let you die, and that’s more, Ms Lane, than anyone in your life has been able to say to you. More than anyone else can do
I think eventually they're going to find out that MS is like 10 different things. I have a neurological disease something like MS, and it's MS, so let's take medicine for it
I think eventually they're going to find out that MS is like 10 different things. I have a neurological disease something like MS, and it's MS, so let's take medicine for it.
When I do Gaelic music, I've learned about Gaelic culture; I've tried to learn the language. Whenever I do mouth music and there's Gaelic speakers in the audience, and they come up and go, 'Good job,' I'm always like, 'Phew.'
There’s only one question that matters, Ms. Lane, and it’s the one you never get around to asking. People are capable of varying degrees of truth. The majority spend their entire lives fabricating an elaborate skein of lies, immersing themselves in the faith of bad faith, doing whatever it takes to feel safe. The person who truly lives has precious few moments of safety, learns to thrive in any kind of storm. It’s the truth you can stare down stone-cold that makes you what you are. Weak or strong. Live or die. Prove yourself. How much truth can you take, Ms. Lane?
And then what? Said, 'Oh, I'm so sorry, Ms. Lane, I didn't mean to wrinkle your lovely blouse. May I press that for you?' Or perhaps you gouged it with one of your pretty pink nails?" I was really beginning to wonder what his hang-up with pink was, but I didn't resent the sarcasm in his voice.
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