You know when you are reading and you hit a line that sums up the whole feeling of the book? Readers regularly post their favorite lines to Facebook, and there is usually a consensus at to which is quintessentially that book.
The Smythe-Smith musicale. It finished off what the Crusades had begun.
In fanciful novels, the sort Sarah read by the dozen and refused to apologize for, foreshadowing was painted by the bucket, not the brushstroke.
“Don’t tell me your name. It’s likely to awaken my conscience, and that’s the last thing we want.”
“Die!” the unicorn shrieked. “Die! Die! Die!”
Today I fell in love.
It would be rather easy to love Hyacinth Bridgerton. He didn’t know where that thought had come from, or what strange corner of his brain had come to that conclusion, because he was quite certain it would be nearly impossible to LIVE with her, but somehow he knew that it wouldn’t be at all difficult to love her.
“My aim,” she said tightly, “is to find a husband. Not to snare one, not to trap one, not to drag one to the altar, but to find one, preferably one with whom I might share a long and contented life.”
Rupert’s poetry could surely have been improved by a cow or two. Saying moo on cue at Waterloo.
Eloise just stared at him. As long as she lived, she’d never understand men. She had four brothers, and quite frankly should have understood them better than most women, and maybe it had taken all of her twenty-eight years to come to this realization, but men were, quite simply, freaks.
“So it wasn’t the man himself you loved, so much as the way he made you feel.”
“Is there a difference?” Susannah asked.
David appeared to consider her question quite deeply before finally saying, “Yes. Yes, I think there is.”