That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. I dare say I would’ve cut his throat had not the unmentionables distracted me from doing so.
There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil – a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.” “And your defect, Mr. Darcy, is to hate everybody.” “And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand them.
Tell you now children – you’re all gonna die. No hand stamp reentry, no refund, no lie. – Found written on a bathroom stall in Disneyland, June 6th, 1988.
Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “a summer with so few balls would be miserable indeed for a girl who thinks of little else.
Henry O. Sturges, born in England, March 2nd, 1563. Landed at Roanoke, July 27th, 1587. Friend to the American Revolution, present at the Battles of Trenton and Yorktown, staunch supporter of the North in its hour of need, adviser to presidents, a decorated soldier who distinguished himself in the trenches of the Great War, and member of the Union Brotherhood – a collective of vampires dedicated to preserving the freedom of man and his dominion over the earth.
It is a strange thing how quickly the body dies. How fragile a force our presence is. In an instant the soul is gone – leaving an empty, insignificant vessel in its stead.
Halloween, the one night when we embrace the darkness from which all of America is descended. October is the gateway to the wonderful, mystical finale of the American year. A place where life ends and the celebration of life briefly begins.
It’s no wonder we’re always getting’ mistaken for queers. Look at us – a bunch’a proper men, never growin’ old, ’angin’ about in the dark, bitin’ other men on the neck. They don’t fear us ’cause we got claws and fangs; they fear us ’cause they think we’re comin’ after their sons.
First I become flush with righteous anger, which, if you must be angry, is the very best kind.
Either I’m right,” he continued, “and he doesn’t exist, or you’re right, and he’s the kind of God who watches children die. The kind of God who sits around while men like Herod build palaces and good people starve. Either way, he’s not worth worshipping.
Mr. Bingley observed the desserts his poor servants had been attending to at the time of their demise – a delightful array of tarts, exotic fruits and pies, sadly soiled by blood and brains, and thus unusable.
It is the sort of suffering that cannot be done justice with words. I can say only this – that I suspect it is an anguish from which one never recovers. A walking death.
Oh, a pipe smoker,” said Henry. “Well, that narrows it down.” “Sometimes,” said Doyle, “there is nothing so significant as a trifle.
As Mr. Darcy walked off, Elizabeth felt her blood turn cold. She had never in her life been so insulted. The warrior code demanded she avenge her honour. Elizabeth reached down to her ankle, taking care not to draw attention. There, her hand met the dagger concealed beneath her dress. She meant to follow this proud Mr. Darcy outside and open his throat. But.
He was a cowboy with the soul of a poet. To this day, he is the most American American I’ve ever met.
No ninjas! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without any ninjas!
A Strange Eastern Light “During the time of King Herod, Wise Men from the east came and asked, ‘Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.’” – Matthew 2:1.
Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?” At.
She stood there for a moment, conflicted and confused. A victim of you and inexperience and a deep desire – a need- to believe that everything he was saying was, in fact, true.
Mr. Darcy approached them soon afterwards. Elizabeth turned to him and said, “Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?” “With great energy; but balls are always a subject which makes a lady energetic.
No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been ashamed of ever wishing to drink the blood from his severed head.