I am entirely capable." "Of what, waddling up to someone and ruthlessly bumping into them?

She poked him in the center of his chest with two fingers to punctuate her words. “You are an unfeeling”—poke —“traitorous”—poke—“mistrusting”—poke—“rude”—poke —“booby!” Every poke turned him mortal, but Lord Maccon didn’t seem to mind it in the least. Instead he grabbed the hand that poked him and brought it to his lips. “You put it very well, my love.

I never gossip. I observe. And then relay my observations to practically everyone.

There are words to describe her, my dear, but one does not repeat them in polite company.

Who doesn’t want an exploding wicker chicken?

"My father," she admitted, "was of Italian extraction. Unfortunately, not an affliction that can be cured." She paused. "Though he did die."

Scotsmen, she had occasion to observe, often did have nice knees. Perhaps that was why they insisted upon kilts.