A Quote by Suzanne Collins
Yes. I killed him. And buried her in flowers," I say. "And I sang her to sleep.
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Naptime,? said Christian, leading her toward the bed. ?I still need a shower.? ?Sleep first. Shower later.? He pulled back the covers. ?I?ll sleep with you.? ?Sleep or sleep?? she asked dryly, sliding gratefully into bed. ?Real sleep. You need it.? He crawled in beside her, spooning against her and resting his face on her shoulder. ?Of course, afterward, if you want to conduct any official Council business...? ?I swear, if you say ‘Little Dragomirs,? you can sleep in the hall.
My wife, my Mary, goes to her sleep the way you would close the door of a closet. So many times I have watched her with envy. Her lovely body squirms a moment as though she fitted herself into a cocoon. She sighs once and at the end of it her eyes close and her lips, untroubled, fall into that wise and remote smile of the Ancient Greek gods. She smiles all night in her sleep, her breath purrs in her throat, not a snore, a kitten's purr... She loves to sleep and sleep welcomes her.
Man, Wren. I’m impressed. No woman ever sent flowers to thank me. (Serre) Don’t be that impressed. I’m thinking she didn’t send flowers to thank him. One flower says thank you. This many says she thought he was dead. Or that she killed him. Hmm...I’m thinking, put a tiger in her tank and that didn’t quit rev her up. What she needs is to go hunting for bear. (Dev)
Cam held her closer. "Marry me, Amelia. You're what I want. You're my fate." One hand slid to the back of her head, gripping the braids and ribbons to keep her mouth upturned. "Say yes." He nibbled at her lips, licked at them, opened them. He kissed her until she writhed in his arms, her pulse racing. "Say it, Amelia, and save me from ever having to spend a night with another woman. I'll sleep indoors. I'll get a haircut. God help me, I think I'd even carry a pocket watch if it pleased you.
on him, under him, with his mouth pressed to hers, he sang to her uncouth songs that moved through her body.
He couldn't say it. He couldn't tell her how much she had come to mean to him. She could destroy him with her rejection. If she had feigned her feelings for him - if he'd bought into her lies and her quest for freedom... He wasn't sure what he would do. He could hurt her.
In my room I'd barely closed my eyes when the blonde from the movie house came along and sang her whole song of sorrow just for me. I helped her put me to sleep, so to speak, and succeeded pretty well... I wasn't entirely alone... It's not possible to sleep alone.
Annabeth didn’t want to sleep, but her body betrayed her. Her eyelids turned to lead. “Percy, wake me for second watch. Don’t be a hero.” He gave her that smirk she’d come to love. “Who, me?” He kissed her, his lips parched and feverishly warm. “Sleep.
What did you say to the messanger mi'lady? Do you remember the exact words of your last proposal?" "I probably said, "Will you marry me?" Connor smiled. He pulled her toward him, lowered his head and kissed her just long enough to stun her. He lifted his head then, looked into her eyes, and finally spoke to her. "Yes Brenna. I will marry you.
My God", he whispered. What have I done to her? He thought, humbled. The spell was broken, but it wasn't sealed, and her soul was bare to him, the scars of her tragic past and her triumphs over pain and her aching need to find her place. He just wanted to hold her to him and tell her it would be okay, that she had survived and was beautiful.
It's part of the strategy to remind people who Hillary Rodham Clinton actually is. If others aren't going to hold her account for her full record, then, yes, we will. And her record includes naming and blaming women who came in contact with her husband, whether it was consensual relationships like Monica Lewinsky, an intern at the White House with him as President, completely debasing the office of the White House - the office of The Presidency - or Jennifer Flowers, 12-year affair while he was Governor of Arkansas.
Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was as golden as the sun's rays, and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her red shoes and her fiddle, but loved most of all, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music.
Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.
Nature is pitiless; she never withdraws her flowers, her music, her fragrance, and her sunlight from before human cruelty or suffering.
Every night before putting her to sleep, Yankel counts her ribs, as if one might have disappeared in the course of the day and become the seed and soil for some new companion to steal her away from him.
The disgraced Usurer Yankel D took the baby girl home that evening... He made a bed of crumpled newspaper in a deep baking pan and gently tucked it in the oven, so that she wouldn't be disturbed by the noise of the small falls outside... When he pulled her out to feed her or just hold her, her body was tattooed with the newsprint... Sometimes he would rock her to sleep in his arms, and read her left to right, and know everything he needed to know about the world. If it wasn't written on her, it wasn't important to him.
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