He snarled at me. "This isn't over yet, Betsy." "Excellent," I said. "I would also have accepted 'You haven't seen the last of me' and 'You'll regret this'.

I was so furious I was actually dizzy with it. There were so many bitchy, sarcastic observations to make, I was having a sarcasm stroke. "My God! You people! You're - you're so stupid you're making my eyeballs throb. They're throbbing, dammit!

Back off, boys. You don't want to mess with an out-of-work secretary. We're real testy.

Kissing Sinclair was like making out with a sexy timber wolf— he was licking my fangs and nipping me lightly and growling under his breath and it was...oh, it was really something.

She couldn't tell where his pupils ended and the irises began; looking into those eyes was like looking into a well where children had drowned.

I trudged around on the muddy river bottom for half an hour, patiently waiting to drown, before giving up and slogging my way back to shore.

Elizabeth Anne Taylor April 25, 1974 - April 25, 2004 Our Sweetheart, Only resting