The low ceiling that was water stained and boasting spiders so large she half expected Frodo and Sam to appear and fight them off.

Even if there was such a thing as a half-price sale at the local Ming outlet shop, she would have to work ten lifetimes to make up such a sum. Always supposing that it wasn't one of a kind. Panic was no longer merely rearing. It was thundering through her at full throttle. There was only one thing to be done, she realized. The mature, responsible, adult thing to do. Hide the evidence.

“Cherie, did the table do something I did not see or were you just attempting to teach it a lesson?” “I was imagining it was Evor.” “Strange, they do not greatly resemble each other.” “I have a good imagination.” “In that case, I do not suppose you are imagining I'm Brad Pitt?”

Oui, oui, he snapped with an obvious lack of awe. "Ding dong the demon's dead, now can we admire our delightful handiwork someplace where the ceiling is not about to cave in and your oh-so-handsome vampire is not about to become a dust bunny? (Levet)

Dante to Abby: My God you are going to kill me. Again

What was the point in satin and lace if it didn't make a man struggle to speak?

This is a private home." "And?" "And I can't enter without an invitation." She jerked her head up. "You're kidding me?" "No." "You don't live in a crypt and you can't turn into a bat, but you have to have an invitation to enter a house?" Abby hissed. A reluctant amusement softened the flat eyes. "You wanted me to be vampirish." "Not when it's inconvenient.