If our legal counsel, Bob Rutherford, works for Satan, Satan should buy Bob a better toupee.
Pamela Palmer’s stories catch you, captivate you, and never let you go.
A princess always takes care that her words are honeyed, for she may have to eat them.
I thought society would do the right thing. Now I look around and I think – society never does the right thing. Sometimes people do the right thing. Sometimes one person makes a difference. But civilization has rules, and I’ve learned them well – never be helpless, never be sick, never be poor.
Most males do not mature, they simply grow taller.
She wished she hadn’t succumbed to irritation. Because she wanted to know about his inner feelings. She always thought people were like pieces of art glass – strong enough to handle and use, delicate enough to shatter under a strong blow, and filled with swirls of color that fascinated the eye. But while most people – and most glass – allowed light through, she could discern nothing of Devlin’s heart and soul through the smoke and mirrors he held before him.
All I wanted was a man who could love and who loved me, who I could share my secrets with and know his.
It was like living with a bad action movie, all excitement and motion, and no character development.
She had refused to draw the monster. She feared to give him form.
You can always fix crap. You can’t fix a blank page.
For as long as I could remember, I had always been the girl who had watched her father kill her mother.
I’ve been dead over seventy years and still when I hear a woman scream, I find myself standing, listening, wanting to help and unable to do anything except watch.
They hit a pothole deep enough to make her teeth snap together, and she burst out, “This road reminds me of my life. It’s going somewhere familiar, but every time I look up, there’s a new obstacle to jump, another hole to fall in.
I realized my sorrow, the regret of a restless, doomed spirit, rang in my voice. For the first time I wondered if my fate was to helplessly watch violence until I became as mad as the men who committed the murders.
She was no longer a coward, forcing bravery from herself – she was brave. “You’re not going to kill me,” she said, and with swift impatience, she jabbed her elbow in his gut.
By the time it was over, we knew the dead were the lucky ones.
Saura nodded, bemused by the code of ethics that allowed for murder and kidnapping but balked at a lady touching a lord outside of the state of wedlock.
I’ve been a foul-mouthed knave.” “Well, I don’t know.” “A beetle-headed malfeasor.” “Nothing so – ” “A base, proud tottyhead.” He paused, but she said nothing. “Aren’t you going to object?” “No,” she drawled the word. “Humility is so refreshing in a man.
When I break a rock open with my pick, I’m a prophet. I see the past. I see the future. I know where the world is going, and where it’s been. And I always, always want to know more.
Tis knowing God created Eve from Adam’s rib, the spot that protected his heart. ‘Tis knowing without that rib to protect him, a man is vulnerable. ‘Tis knowing you’re created to be at my side, not under my feet. ‘Tis knowing we’re one body, one mind.
He imagines himself a wit, but he’s only half that.