Miss Wynter, I think you should be the evil queen,” Harriet said. “There’s an evil queen?” Daniel echoed. With obvious delight. “Of course,” Harriet replied. “Every good play has an evil queen.” Frances actually raised her hand. “And a un—” “Don’t say it,” Elizabeth growled. Frances crossed her eyes, put her knife to her forehead in an approximation of a horn, and neighed.

If he was planning to attack and ravish, he gave no indication of being in a hurry to do so.

There are moments in a woman's life when her heart flips in her chest, when the world suddenly seems uncommonly pink and perfect, when a symphony can be heard in the tinkle of a doorbell.

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.

He stepped toward her, and her heart just ached from it. His face was so handsome, and so dear, and so perfectly wonderfully familiar. She knew the slope of his cheeks, and the exact shade of his eys, brownish near the iris, melting into green at the edge. And his mouth-she knew that mouth, the look of it, the feel of it. She knew his smile, and she knew his frown, and she knew- she knew far to much.

Nonetheless, I can't help but be flattered that you noticed the latest addition to my collection," he said. She rolled her eyes. "Because personal injuries are such a dignified thing to collect." "Are all governesses so sarcastic?

Turn right up ahead," he directed. "It'll take us directly to my cottage." She did as he asked. "Does your cottage have a name?" "My Cottage." "I might have known," she muttered. He smirked. Quite a feat, in her opinion, since he looked sick as a dog. "I'm not kidding," he said. Sure enough, in another minute they pulled up in front of an elegant country house, complete with a small, unobtrusive sign in front reading, MY COTTAGE