A duel, a duel, a duel. Is there anything more exciting, more romantic ... or more utterly moronic?

It was one of those things that had to be experienced to be understood

Be careful what you wish for,her mind thundered.

He wondered if she'd mind if he threw her down on the blanket and tore off her clothing. (..) She looked heartbreakingly innocent. Alex sighed. She'd probably mind.

Francesca: It's still a bit cold yet. Michael: Never stopped John and me. Francesca: Yes, well, you're Scottish. Your blood circulates quite well half frozen.

When a man writes a romance, the woman dies. When a woman writes one, it ends all tidy and sweet.

Am I not allowed to have my pride? Or is that an emotion reserved for the elite?