Jason, stop this,” she pleaded. “You don’t want to kiss me. You don’t even like me more than a little when you aren’t foxed” A harsh laugh escaped him. “I like you too damned much!” he whispered bitterly, then pulled her head down and captured her lips in a demaning, scalding kiss that took everything and give nothing in return.

Royce Westmoreland stared at him with biting scorn. "I despise hypocrisy, particularly when it is coated with holiness." "May I ask for a specific example?" "Fat priests," Royce replied, "with fat purses, who lecture staving peasants on the dangers of gluttony and the merits of poverty.

I ought to break your neck!" Clayton interrupted. Too late, Whitney realized that she shouldn't have been standing all this time on her "injured" knee. "Allow me to congratulate you on a fine day's work, Madam," he said sternly. "In less than twelve hours, you've brought Whitticomb to your side and Cuthbert to your feet.

Why did happy memories fade and blur until one could scarcely recall them at all, while horrible memories seemed to retain their blinding clarity and painful sharpness?

Nor is he man enough to make a woman of you.

God help me if I ever injure my back," Clayton quipped. "God help you if you ever turn it," Whitney snapped, "for there'll surely be some heartbroken papa or cuckolded husband ready with a knife--if I don't murder you first.

Life can be so good if you let it. But you must trade with life. You give something and you get something, then you give something of yourself again and you receive something again. Life goes bad when people try to take from it without giving. Then they came away empty-handed, and they grab harder and more often, growing more disappointed and disillusioned each time.