How Good Girls Eat Corn On The Cob Quotes & Sayings

I don't believe in fairy tales," she breathed.
"I'd like to make you believe." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. — Sylvain Reynard

The art of being helpful is behaving as if everything we do matters - because we never know which things might. — Gloria Steinem

Standing 89 feet high, the Carthay Circle Theatre is actually taller than Sleeping Beauty Castle. — Leslie Le Mon

Over time, the hype of living a new life, taking up a radical calling, and changing the world can creep into every area of our life. And it can make us tired, depressed, and mean. — Michael S. Horton

Life in a great society, or for that matter in a small, is a web of tangled relations of all sorts, whose adjustment so that it may be endurable is an extraordinarily troublesome matter. — Learned Hand

Confront somebody with an issue before it becomes a conflict. Confrontation is not all bad. — Sunday Adelaja

Not that Strider was intoxicated. He was the sober one. He reclined on a delightfully cushioned lounge in the sprawling ranch Paris had rented. In Dallas, Texas, of all places. Promiscuity had decked himself out, too, wearing a Stetson (weird), no shirt (understandable), unfastened jeans (smart) and cowboy boots (weird again). Dude looked ready to rustle cattle or something. At — Gena Showalter

We shall seek debate without division or rancour. — Johann Lamont

To read the report of a discussion in which arguments for and against are presented, in which a subject has been covered from different points of view, with new ideas advanced - this is far more instructive than to read a brief account of the resolution passed on the matter. — Fredrik Bajer

The trip I made to Angola to study the prehistoric contents of the gravel beds as a means of deciding the age of the deposits and their economic potential was the first time prehistory had ever been used for such a purpose. — Louis Leakey

I love you. I want to be where you are. — S.C. Stephens

On the seventh day, Howard turned off the trail and sat by the river and smoked a pipeful of tobacco that he had packed for the hermit. As he smoked, he listened to the voices in the rapids. They murmured about a place somewhere deep in the woods where a set of bones lay on a bed of moss, above which a troop of mournful flies had kept vigil the previous autumn until the frosts came, and they, too, had succumbed. — Paul Harding