Mr Hand Quotes & Sayings

GENERAL RAGINSKY: Mr. President, in order to exhaust fully the presentation of evidence in regard to the subject-matter of my report, I ask your permission to examine witness Josif Abgarovitch Orbeli - Tatiana dropped the cup of tea she was drinking, and it fell on the tile floor and broke, and Tatiana fell on the floor, too, on her knees, and began to pick up the pieces, every moment or so emitting cries of such distress that Vikki, who was nearby, jumped up, backed away and said in a stunned voice, "What's wrong with you?" Tatiana waved her off with one hand, her other hand holding a ceramic shard which covered her mouth as she continued to listen to the bare echo that was the radio broadcast as it ceaselessly continued. A crash on the road, but the radio still plays music, still transmits sounds no matter how incongruous it is that the ear can somehow hear, that the brain can somehow listen - — Paullina Simons

A hand in her hair, wrenching back her head. "What's my name?"
She scratched trails down his back. He didn't even wince. "My name, kitty. Say my name."
"Mr. Mud Stick, Muddie for short," she said, even as she rubbed herself against the hard thrust of his denim-covered erection, the roughness of the fabric an exquisite sensation. She would've liked naked skin even more, but he wasn't budging.
"Say it, or no cock for you today."
Her mouth fell open. "Fuck you."
"You'll be doing that shortly. — Nalini Singh

N matter how stressed Claire became, the tropical trees and exotic island flowers decorating the lobby always managed to take her breath away and put her mind at ease. Nature had always been a good de-stressor for her coming in close behind having her hand held by Mr. Sam Stewart — Carolyn Gibbs

The only subject ... on which he (Mr. Peggotty - M. Zh.) ever showed a violent temper or swore an oath, was this generosity of his; and if it were ever referred to ... he struck the table a heavy blow with his right hand (had split it on one such occasion), and swore a dreadful oath that he would be "Gormed" if he didn't cut and run for good, if it was ever mentioned again. It appeared ... that nobody had the least idea of the etymology of this terrible verb passive to be gormed; but that they all regarded it constituting a most solemn imprecation." (Chapter III) — Charles Dickens

In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay very few of my records before the public. My participation in some of his adventures was always a privilege which entailed discretion and reticence upon me. — Arthur Conan Doyle

Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways - with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained. — Jane Austen

What a tale we have been in, Mr. Frodo, haven't we?' he said. 'I wish I could hear it told. Do you think they'll say: Now comes the story of Nine-fingered Frodo and the ring of Doom? And then everyone will hush, like we did, when in Rivendell they told us the tale of Beren One-hand and the Great Jewel. I wish I could hear it! And I wonder how it will go on after our part. — J.R.R. Tolkien

In the bottom right-hand corner was a decent-sized color photo of Mr. and Mrs. Carl Trudeau posing with their new acquisition. Brianna, ever photogenic, as she damned well be, emanated glamour. Carl looked rich, thin, and young, he thought, and Imelda was as baffling in print as she was in person. Was she really a work of art? Or was she just a hodgepodge of bronze and cement thrown together by some confused soul working hard to appear tortured? — John Grisham

Because when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded. Arrows that continually glanced off from Mr. Rochester's breast and fell harmless at his feet, might, I knew, if shot by a surer hand, have quivered keen in his proud heart - have called love into his stern eye, and softness into his sardonic face, or better still, without weapons a silent conquest might have been won. — Charlotte Bronte

deaf. Unruffled by Herbert Jemson's breach of allegiance, because he had not heard it, Mr. Stone rose and walked to the pulpit with Bible in hand. He opened it and said, "My text for today is taken from the twenty-first — Harper Lee

You were always grossly obese,' observed Stephen. 'Were you to walk ten miles a day, and eat half what you do in fact devour, with no butcher's meat and no malt liquors, you would be able to play at the hand-ball like a Christian rather than a galvanized manatee, or dugong. Mr Goodridge, how do you so, sir? I hope I see you well.' This to Jack's opponent, a former shipmate, the master of HMS Polychrest and a fine navigator, but one whose calculations had unfortunately convinced him that phoenixes and comets were one and the same thing - that the appearance of a phoenix, reported in the chronicles, was in fact the return of one or another of the various comets whose periods were either known or conjectured. He resented disagreement, and although in ordinary matters he was the kindest, gentlest of men, he was now confined for maltreating a rear-admiral of the blue: he had not actually struck Sir James, but he had bitten his remonstrating finger. — Patrick O'Brian

It isn't a club," I said calmly. "It's a walking stick."
"Six feet long."
"It's traditional Ozark folk art."
"With dents and nicks all over it."
I thought about it for a second. "I'm insecure?"
"Get a blanket." He held out his hand. I signed and passed my staff over to him. "Do I get a receipt?"
He took a notepad from his pocket and wrote on it. Then he passed it over to me. It read: Received, one six foot tall traditional Ozark walking club from Mr. Smart-Ass. — Jim Butcher

Will's Father's gaze went immediately to Gabriel, and then to Cecily, his eyes narrowing.
"And who is this gentlemen?"
Will's grin widened.
"Oh him," he said. "This is Cecliy's friend, Mr. Gabriel Lightworm."
Gabriel, half in the act of stretching his hand to greet Mr. Herondale, froze in horror.
"Lightwood," he sputtered. "Gabriel Lightwood. — Cassandra Clare

The odds of surviving are not good for serfs, or clerics, since they tended the sick, but miraculously I survive. Mr. Erikson rewards me with a laminated badge that reads, I SURVIVED THE BLACK PLAGUE.
Mom will be so proud. — Cynthia Hand

He folded back the hem of her housedress. Peeled the wet underpants from her skin and moved them down over her pale knees and her small feet and then dropped them on the floor. He could hear the voices of the children playing in the tree outside. He gently pushed her thighs apart and saw immediately that the baby had already begun to crown. Her skin was paler than his wife's was, even in midwinter. He gave her his hand to get her through the next contraction, keeping his arm steady as she squeezed. He spread the fingers of the other over her taut belly. Mr. Persichetti wore a silver Saint Christopher's medal around his neck and kept a Sacred Heart scapular in his pocket, but when Mary Keane asked him, catching her breath, "Who's the patron saint of women in labor?" he shrugged. He told her he only knew Saint Dymphna was the patron of the insane. He'd had the — Alice McDermott

That fiend! Mr. Darling would cry, and Nana's bark was the echo of it, but Mrs. Darling never upbraided Peter; there was something in the right-hand corner of her mouth that wanted her not to call Peter names. — J.M. Barrie

Are you really left-handed?" Mr. Marshall asked.
"No. I've just been pretending to use my left hand my entire life because I enjoy never being able to work scissors properly. — Courtney Milan

Thank you," she said.
He looked bemused. "For what?"
"For everything. For being amazing in bed and endlessly patient, for sacrificing the Savage Club for me and bringing me all the way around the world simply because you were worried about me, even though it meant you were probably going to spend your holidays alone. For the way you always put your hand on the small of my back to guide me across the street and the way you let me be in charge of the television remote control and the way you have never, not once, judged me or mistrusted me or made me feel small or unwanted."
"Violet, sweetheart ... " He blinked and she realized that he was close to tears.
Her Martin. Mr. Uptight. Mr. Repressed. — Sarah Mayberry

Ben hid a wince behind his hand, trying very hard not to think of seventy-year-old Ellie Verstgard rolling around with Mr. Wenner. Despite his best resistance, the image scrolled across his brain and took some of his love for the world with it. — Victoria Dahl

Mr. Llewellyn, on the other hand, said there were worse things in life than a temper, that it only proved one had an opinion. — Kate Morton

Mr. Deacon, on the other hand, was in favour of abolishing, or ignoring, the existing world entirely, with a view to experimenting with one of an entirely different order. He was a student of Esperanto (or, possibly, one of the lesser-known artificial languages), intermittently vegetarian, and an advocate of decimal coinage. — Anthony Powell

I felt Mr. Smith's pop bottle in my hand, and for a second I couldn't remember why I would be carrying such a thing. I know. I'm almost ashamed of it now - the fact that ten seconds with a boy had driven my mission from my mind. But I did look at it, and I did remember who I was - why I was there - and I knew it was time to forget about boys and trash cans and cats named Suzie; I remembered what was real and what was legend. — Ally Carter

This is what we, in the con business, call making a spectacle of ourselves. Let's try to avoid that from now on."
"Except [ ... ] Mr. No-Sex-in-the-Bathrooms is going to describe two probably drunk people who staggered in. Plus, he thinks I'm a prostitute. We can double down on that by ... " She stopped him, glancing back into the store throught the big plate-glass windows. Ian looked, too, and sure enough, the clerk was still watching them warily.
"Perfect, she said, and the made what was, absolutely, the international two-handed gesture for sexual intercourse. She then added a couple of exaggerated hip thrusts, saying, "I want to make this absolutely clear, because this guy's kind of an idiot." She then rubbed her fingers together, after which she held out her hand, palm up, as if to say Pay me.
Ian cracked up. "That's actually kind of scary. Sex with a mime. Do I have to pay extra to make sure you don't do the trapped-in-a-box thing while we're doing it? — Suzanne Brockmann

Mr Tulip raised a trembling hand. 'Is this the bit where my whole life passes in front of my eyes?' he said.
NO, THAT WAS THE BIT JUST NOW.
'Which bit?'
THE BIT, said Death, BETWEEN YOUR BEING BORN AND YOUR DYING. — Terry Pratchett

After ten whole minutes of painful silence, I finally raised my hand and told Mr. O'Hara I loved Miranda Blythe's romance novels, and I decided I liked him immediately when he didn't laugh or reassure me that we'd be reading real books. Like Mrs. Andrews had last year.
He did say, 'I'm afraid Ms. Blythe is not on the curriculum this semester. We'll be starting your education with the epic poets - boring, I know, but necessary building blocks. However, an extra-credit book report is always welcome, and you're free to choose whatever topic you like.'
Then Mr. O'Hara added, 'I think Ms. Blythe's works would be a particularly interesting topic for a report. In fact, if you want an example of the archetypal hero journey - '
'Wait, wait, wait.' Fred raised his hand. 'You read romance novels?'
'My dear boy,' Mr. O'Hara replied, 'I read everything. — Caitlen Rubino-Bradway

Which wishes for communion with us. This supreme intelligence longs to be known. It calls out to us. It draws us close to its mystery, and it grants us these remarkable minds, in order that we try to reach for it. It wants us to find it. It wants union with us, more than anything." "I know that is what you think," said Alma, patting his hand again, "and I believe it is quite an inventive notion, Mr. Wallace." "Do you think I'm correct? — Elizabeth Gilbert

Upon her butler's announcing the arrival of Mr Ravenscar, Lady Mablethorpe, who had been dozing over a novel from the Circulating Library, sat up with a jerk, and raised a hand to her dishevelled cap. — Georgette Heyer

They walked on in silence for a while, until Rudy said, "I just wish I was like Jesse Owens, Papa." This time, Mr. Steiner placed his hand on Rudy's head and explained, "I know, son - but you've got beautiful blond hair and big, safe blue eyes. You should be happy with that; is that clear?" But nothing was clear. — Markus Zusak

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 — Seth Grahame-Smith

And I say no. The problem is the light, the dim light down here. Cupped in the palm of my hand, the cyanide and the wood pill, I can't tell which is which. What's sex and what's death - I can't tell the difference.
I ask which one to give her.
And Mr. Bacardi leans in to look, both of us breathing hot, damp air into my open hand. — Chuck Palahniuk

Is something the matter?" "I thought you'd prefer distancing yourself from Arabella. She just took to the floor with Mr. Sumner." Theodore narrowed his eyes as he searched the crowd. Sure enough, Arabella was in Grayson's arms, laughing at something the man was whispering in her ear. No one except him should be whispering in her ear. He took a breath and twirled Felicia around in circles, trying to get closer to Arabella. "What are you doing?" Felicia hissed. "I need to speak to Arabella." "From what I've heard, she doesn't want to speak to you. Eliza told me she's beyond annoyed with you." "Yes, well, I'm a bit annoyed with her at the moment, so we're fairly even. When we get closer to them, I'm going to hand you off to Grayson and take Arabella. — Jen Turano

A remarkable parallel, which I think has never been noticed, obtains between the facts of social evolution on the one hand, and of zological evolution as expounded by Mr. Darwin on the other. — William James

Let all your crew pull strong, come what will. (Spring, my men, spring!) There's hogsheads of sperm ahead, Mr. Stubb, and that's what ye came for. (Pull, my boys!) Sperm, sperm's the play! This at least is duty; duty and profit hand in hand. — Herman Melville

Around 1980, I'd been writing short stories, all to no success; so I wrote a fan letter to Stephen King and asked "How long should it take an aspiring writer to either get published or know when to give up?" Lo and behold, King wrote back to me in long hand with blue flair pen on 14-inch paper, purveying a very nice, helpful note; in it he said my letter proved a "command of the language," that I should never give up, and that it would take years to succeed, not months. "That's cold comfort but it's the truth." This was the ultimate encouragement for a young writer to be who didn't know shit about the market. I took Mr. King's advice and actually sold my first novel little more than a year later. I'll always be copiously grateful for this advice, and it's the same advice I give aspiring writers now (along with the story of King's reply!). — Edward Lee

Surely you don't disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself? You don't really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit? You are a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all! — J.R.R. Tolkien

Do you have a boyfriend?"
That was a little too personal, wasn't it?
"I.." I was caught off guard.
"Is that a yes, or a no?" He raised an eyebrow in curiosity as he stared deeply into my eyes.
If I looked deep enough, I thought, maybe I could find what I was looking for.
"No," I whispered.
He put a hand to his ear. "What was that? I didn't quite hear you?" I had the feeling he had heard it loud and clear, but was messing with me.
"No," I said with one quick look at him and then I lowered my eyes toward the table.
He smiled at my response. "Good," he replied.
Was I flirting? Was he?
I looked back up to try to understand his answer. "And do you, Mr Kaden?"
"Do I what?" He was definitely playing with me now. "Do I have a boyfriend? No. I don't."
I laughed and couldn't help but smile in the process. — Jennifer Whitfield

My knowledge of Mr. Forster's works is limited to one novel which I dislike; and anyway it was not he who fathered that trite little whimsy about characters getting out of hand; it is as old as the quills, although of course one sympathizes with his people if they try to wriggle out of that trip to India or whereever he takes them. My characters are galley slaves. — Vladimir Nabokov

God and religion before every thing!' Dante cried. 'God and religion before the world.'
Mr Casey raised his clenched fist and brought it down on the table with a crash.
'Very well then,' he shouted hoarsely, 'if it comes to that, no God for Ireland!'
'John! John!' cried Mr Dedalus, seizing his guest by the coat sleeve.
Dante stared across the table, her cheeks shaking. Mr Casey struggled up from his chair and bent across the table towards her, scraping the air from before his eyes with one hand as though he were tearing aside a cobweb.
'No God for Ireland!' he cried, 'We have had too much God in Ireland. Away with God! — James Joyce

Mr. Offerman clasps his hand on top of hers. "It's a good hobby for you, dear. It gets you out of the kitchen."
I straighten my spine. Are we in the fifties here? "Out of the kitchen? — Lauren Blakely

I heard it stated that, on one occasion, during one of Alastair's visits to his friend "Mr Lachlan," the famous divine requested the bard to compose a poem on the "Resurrection of Christ." To this he demurred and told Mr Lachlan in Gaelic that "he knew more about such matters himself, and should try his own hand — Various

His knees locked and he pushed his weight against Mr. Jones's hand. It wasn't the dim light coming through the skylights or the giant steel fan that waited to chop them up or the smell of urine or the dank-dungeon cells that lined both sides of the aisle that made Danny step back. It was a sense of panic, of fear, that saturated the atmosphere like an electrical current, tingling in his bowels. The boys ahead of him didn't seize up, but they stutter-stepped. Like the end of a ship's plank was dead ahead. Danny felt this type of fear spreading through his groin like cold fingers once before. A memory emerged in the soupy sea of memories inside his head. He remembered getting pulled out of the back seat of a car with his hands cuffed behind his back by someone. But then like everything he tried to remember, there were gaps. — Tony Bertauski

Mr. Acme comments that the new foodservice professionals in the cafeteria are two-headed carnival escapees and probably also wanted convicts. He expresses his deep conviction that the names they gave him are aliases and promises that if he finds one more cat whisker in his chicken almandine, he will hand them over to the police, whom, he is sure, will be glad to have them back. — Molly Meadows

And that love letter you wrote," Rowan added helpfully. "Signing it with another chap's name." Emma Smallwood's eyes widened, and she turned to look at him, brows high. Henry felt his neck heat. His cravat seemed suddenly far too tight. "That's right," Phillip nodded as the memory returned to him. "Pugsworth, was it not?" Julian grinned at Miss Smallwood, clearly enjoying himself. "Did you really think this Pugsworth fellow in love with you?" Heaven help him, Henry hoped she wouldn't burst into disillusioned tears. Not all these years later. And not over Milton Pugsworth. But Miss Smallwood remained her imperturbable self. "Goodness no," she said. "For all his faults, Mr. Pugsworth spelled exceptionally well and had the neatest hand I ever saw. Your brother, on the other hand, never did learn to spell. And I recognized his sloppy scratchings the moment I saw them." Phillip gave her a long look of amused approval. "Bravo, Emma. — Julie Klassen

He did not know what he would do or say to Mrs. Das once they arrived at the hills. Perhaps he would tell her what a pleasing smile she had. Perhaps he would compliment her strawberry shirt, which he found irresistibly becoming. Perhaps, when Mr. Das was busy taking a picture, he would take her hand. — Anonymous

His voice just stops, exactly like when the needle is lifted from a phonograph record by the hand of someone who is not listening to the record. [ ... ] She speaks the same dead, level tone: two bodiless voices in monotonous strophe and anistrophe: to bodiless voices recounting dreamily something performed in a region without dimension by people without blood [ ... ] Two of them are also motionless, the woman with that stonevisaged patience of a waiting rock, the old man with a spent quality like the charred wick of a candle from which the flame has been violently blown away. — William Faulkner

Nowhere. No one is ever going to hear from you again, sir. No one."
'Uh ... well ... I ... '
'You profane my world, sir! I cannot ... I will not permit you to exist ... here!"
'In that case, Doctor, why not tell me of your work? You know ... condemned man's last request.'
He walked over and put a paternal arm around my shoulders, but the grip of his hand was like steel. He was a lot stronger than he looked. Not big or beefy. But strong.
'Just a dumb reporter ... doing his job ... '
He looked closely at me, eye to eye.
'You grovel nicely, Mr ... '
'Kolchak, sir.'
'Story. You want your story, do you, Mr. Kolchak? Your precious, pitiful story? Your bloody pound of journalistic flesh?'
I smiled but it stuck halfway into a sickly grin. I was clammy. I was trembling. I could feel my wet trouser leg sticking to my flesh and was grateful I'd eaten nothing solid. — Jeff Rice

The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them, leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold. — Charles Dickens

Whom are you going to dance with?' asked Mr. Knightley.
She hesitated a moment and then replied, 'With you, if you will ask me.'
Will you?' said he, offering his hand.
Indeed I will. You have shown that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.'
Brother and sister! no, indeed. — Jane Austen

I sold myself,' said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of relection, 'for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small quantity of second-hand furniture, and twenty pound in money. I went very reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!'
'Cheap!' cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble's ear: 'you would have been dear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows that! — Charles Dickens

Cake," said Mma Ramotswe quickly. "That is Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's great weakness. He cannot help himself when it comes to cake. He can be manipulated very easily if he has a plate of cake in his hand. — Alexander McCall Smith

So you mustn't be frightened, dear Mr. Kappus, if a sadness rises in front of you, larger than any you have ever seen; if an anxiety - like light and cloud-shadows, moves over your hands and everything you do. You must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in the palm of its hand and will not let you fall. — Rainer Maria Rilke

Shadow took a quarter from his pocket, tails up. He flicked it up in the air, knocking it against his finger as it left his hand to give it a wobble that made it look as if it were turning, caught it, slapped it down on the back of his hand. "Call," he said. "Why?" asked Wednesday. "I don't want to work for anyone with worse luck than me. Call." "Heads," said Mr. Wednesday. "Sorry," said Shadow, revealing the coin without even bothering to glance at it. "It was tails. I rigged the toss. — Neil Gaiman

When I saw you at the graveyard, looking so white, I knew something was wrong. I knew it."
Azalea stared at him, the fire flickering highlights in his eyes.
"So ... I thought I should do something," he finished lamely.
"You saw everything?"
Mr. Bradford gave a half of a crooked smile. "I did knock."
"You didn't see Mr ... Mr.-"
"Mr. Keeper?" Mr. Bradford spat the name. "Oh yes, I saw Mr. Keeper. Rather hard not to. I saw him try to kiss you. Or what he said was a kiss. I want to snap his head off!"
Azalea had her hand over her mouth, shocked that someone as solemn and dignified as Mr. Bradford could have such venom. He took her hands, gently, and pushed up her sleeved, revealing her swollen wrists. His fringers traced the bruises.
"You stopped him," said Azalea. She bowed her head, shy. "You kept him from-from-"
"Ah, yes, my lady!" Mr. Bradford smiled a crooked smile in full. "His ponytail was simply begging to be yanked. — Heather Dixon

When I was a med student, the first patient I met with this sort of problem was a sixty-two-year-old man with a brain tumor. We strolled into his room on morning rounds, and the resident asked him, "Mr. Michaels, how are you feeling today?" "Four six one eight nineteen!" he replied, somewhat affably. The tumor had interrupted his speech circuitry, so he could speak only in streams of numbers, but he still had prosody, he could still emote: smile, scowl, sigh. He recited another series of numbers, this time with urgency. There was something he wanted to tell us, but the digits could communicate nothing other than his fear and fury. The team prepared to leave the room; for some reason, I lingered. "Fourteen one two eight," he pleaded with me, holding my hand. "Fourteen one two eight." "I'm sorry." "Fourteen one two eight," he said mournfully, staring into my eyes. And then I left to catch up to the team. He died a few months later, buried with whatever message he had for the world. — Paul Kalanithi

Plotting covetousness and deliberate contrivance, in order to compass a selfish end, are nowhere abundant but in the world of the dramatist: they demand too intense a mental action for many of our fellow-parishioners to be guilty of them. It is easy enough to spoil the lives of our neighbors without taking so much trouble; we can do it by lazy acquiescence and lazy omission, by trivial falsities for which we hardly know a reason, by small frauds neutralized by small extravagances, by maladroit flatteries, and clumsily improvised insinuations. We live from hand to mouth, most of us, with a small family of immediate desires; we do little else than snatch a morsel to satisfy the hungry brood, rarely thinking of seed-corn or the next year's crop. Mr. — George Eliot

Mr. Brundy," she said with a nod, making the most perfunctory of curtsies to her father's guest.
He made no move to take her hand, but merely bowed and responded in kind. "Lady 'elen."
"My name is Helen, Mr. Brundy," she said coldly.
"Very well- 'elen," said Mr. Brundy, surprised and gratified at being given permission, and on such short acquaintance, to dispense with the use of her courtesy title. — Sheri Cobb South

Discontented people might talk of corruption in the Commons, closeness in the Commons, and the necessity of reforming the Commons, said Mr. Spenlow solemnly, in conclusion; but when the price of wheat per bushel had been highest, the Commons had been busiest; and a man might lay his hand upon his heart, and say this to the whole world, - 'Touch the Commons, and down comes the country!' I listened to all this with attention; and though, — Charles Dickens

In Holman Hunt's painting, "The Light of the World, "Christ is shown in a garden at midnight, holding a lantern in His left hand. With His right hand He is knocking on a heavily paneled door. When the painting was unveiled, a critic remarked to the painter, "Mr. Hunt, the work is unfinished. There is no handle on the door." "That," Hunt answered, "is the door to the human heart. It can be opened only from the inside." — James Keller

Have a care, Sir Tucker, lest you find yourself in the stockades."
He scoffs and looks at Mr. Erikson. "She can't do that, can she? She's not the ruler of this class. Brady is."
...
"You could strip him of his title," suggests Brady, apparently not minding at all that I have usurped his throne. "Make him a serf."
"Yeah," says Christian. "Make him a serf. Being a serf blows."
As a serf, poor Christian has already been killed several times in our class. Aside from dying of the Black Plague on the first day, he's starved to death, had his hands cut off for stealing a loaf of bread, and been run down by his master's horse just for kicks. He's like Christian the fifth now. — Cynthia Hand

The Jeep was parked at the beginning of the causeway when Denny got off the bus. She ignored it and started toward the island.
"Denise . . ."
Denny ignored Mr. Jones's call and kept on walking.
She heard the engine start, and soon the Jeep was rolling along beside her.
"Picked up your mail," said Mr. Jones. He handed some envelopes out the window. Denny grabbed them without a word.
"There's a letter there from some old coot named Jones," Mr. Jones said. "Looks like an apology."
Denny looked down and ruffled through the envelopes. "There is not," she said.
"No?" said Mr. Jones sheepishly. "Well, there should be. Guess he didn't get around to writing it. He feels real bad though. I know that for a fact."
Denny stopped and put her hand on her hip and stared at Mr. Jones. — Jackie French Koller

I rub the ears of my dog, my stupid goddam ruddy great dog that I never wanted but who hung around anyway and who followed me thru the swamp and who bit Aaron when he was trying to choke me and who found Viola when she was lost and who's licking my hand with his little pink tongue and whose eye is still mostly squinted shut from where Mr. Prentiss Jr. kicked him and whose tail is way way shorter from where Matthew Lyle cut it off when my dog - my dog - went after a man with a machete to save me and who's right there when I need pulling back from the darkness I fall into and who tells me who I am whenever I forget. — Patrick Ness

Clearly," Jason said, "you are not doing nothing. You are most definitely doing something. What it looks like you're doing is pouring packets of sugar on Lauren Moffat's head."

Shhh," I said. "It's snowing. But only on Lauren." I shook more sugar out of the packets. "'Merry Christmas, Mr. Potter,'" I called softly down to Lauren in my best Jimmy Stewart imitation. "'Merry Christmas, you old building and Loan.'"

Jason started cracking up, and I had to hush him as Becca saw my sugar supply running low and hastened to hand me more packets.

Stop laughing so loud," I said to Jason. "You'll spoil this beautiful moment for them." I sprinkled more sugar over the side of the balcony. "'Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. — Meg Cabot

My, my, it's a surprise to see Mr. Braddock here," Mr. Kent said, a hint of acrimony lacing his voice. "Yes, it is." He leaned in confidentially. "Perhaps he's come to apologize. Or maybe that also needs to be done in his bedroom."

I strained to keep a whisper. "You know very well why I was in his bedroom! He was injured, and I needed to check on him."

"No one is going to make an exception for that where your reputation is concerned."

"I had other concerns at the time."

He put his hand on his chest. "I'm feeling quite injured myself. Perhaps we might - "

"Mr. Kent! This is not an appropriate place for that kind of talk!"

"Very well," he said. "If you wish to speak about it somewhere much more inappropriate, just say the word. — Tarun Shanker

Who? Mr. Dalton has his hand firmly on Grace's elbow, as though she can't manoeuvre herself through the blockade of tables and chairs.
She could fly right through you, thinks Jack. — Helen Humphreys

Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life.'
'You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.'
'Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?'
'Before either.'
'I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,' said the lad.
'Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won't you?'
'I can't, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.'
'Well, then you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.'
'I should like that awfully.'
The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. 'I shall stay with the real Dorian,' he said, sadly. — Oscar Wilde

You know I find surprises vulgar," Lady Kent said, waving her hand dismissively and shifting her gaze to me. "You are acquainted with Miss Madeline Verinder, I presume?"

"Good evening, Miss Verinder," I said, exchanging curtsies with the sweetest, gentlest, most accomplished, and most amiable girl in all of London. At least that is what I had continually repeated to myself the past season, so I wouldn't slap her by sheer reflex whenever she entered my conversations with Mr. Kent and turned them into competitions for his attention. — Tarun Shanker

I tell you what, Mr. Fledgeby,' said Lammle, advancing on him. 'Since you presume to contradict me, I'll assert myself a little. Give me your nose!'
Fledgeby covered it with his hand instead, and said, retreating, 'I beg you won't!'
... 'Say no more, say no more!' Mr. Lammle repeated in a magnificent tone. 'Give me your'
Fledgeby started
'hand. — Charles Dickens

Just - don't - move," Guy said with his hands spread out in front of him. He looked as if he were trying to catch a wild horse, and did not advance, dismount, or draw his sword.
Just then the portcullis dropped.
"There's no escape," Guy assured him.
From a nearby door, a handful of guards trotted toward Hadrian with their swords drawn.
"Stop!" Guy ordered, raising his hand abruptly. "Don't go near him. Just fan out."
The men waiting in line looked from the soldiers to Hadrian and then backed away.
"I know what you're thinking, Mr. Blackwater," Guy said in an almost friendly tone. "But we truly have you outnumbered this time. — Michael J. Sullivan

The servants were evil," he said, recalling the tale the way the whiskey priest they sent to Creedmoor told it, sitting with Mr. Persichetti at the nurses' station late into the night, those watery blue eyes forever bloodshot and sleepless. "They told the crazy chieftain that he should marry his beautiful daughter instead. Which he tried to do." ("If you get my meaning," the priest had said.) "But Dymphna ran off to Belgium." He saw her grimace and purse her lips, her face seemed to swell with color. "Her crazy father followed her," he said, tightening his own grip on her hand. "I guess he cut off her head. — Alice McDermott

Is something wrong, Lieutenant North?" "Beware of Carrington," he said. "Mr. Carrington was very kind," she said. "He made no untoward remarks." "He's already got you lined up in his mind as his next wife. He's buried one already." Her breath came fast, and spots of color lodged in her cheeks. "What happened to his other wife?" Surely she wasn't interested! "She died in childbirth." "Recently?" He dropped his gaze. "No," he muttered, struggling to maintain his temper. "About ten years ago." "The poor man," she murmured. She removed her hand from John's arm. "But I'm not interested in becoming wife number two." "I'm relieved to hear it," he said. She tipped her head. "Are you? Why would that concern you?" "He's much too old for you," he said. She smiled, and her dimple appeared. "Surely he's not more than fifty." "As I said. An old man. — Colleen Coble

You're glowering again," Abigail whispered, stepping to his side and giving him a sharp rap with the fan she was clutching.
"Can you blame me?"
Abigail shot a look to Harriet who was having her hand accosted by an earnest young gentleman by the name of Mr. Richmond Sprout. "Not int he least, dear, but you really should try to control that temper of yours. The last thing we need this evening is for you to punch someone."
"That thought never entered my head."
"Of course it did, but I find it rather sweet. — Jen Turano

Sanity:
You can go through your whole life telling yourself that life is logical, life is prosaic, life is sane. Above all, sane. And I think it is. I've had a lot of time to think about that ...
I think; therefore I am. There are hairs on my face; therefore I shave. My wife and child have been critically injured in a car crash; therefore I pray. It's all logical, it's all sane.
... there's a Mr. Hyde for every happy Jekyll face, a dark face on the other side of the mirror ... You turn the mirror sideways and see your face reflected with a sinister left-hand twist, half mad and half sane.
... No one looks at that side unless they have to, and I can understand that.
... I'm the sane one. — Richard Bachman

Ah, the Hand of Glory!" said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy's list and scurrying over to Draco. "Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir." "I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin," said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, "No offense, sir, no offense meant - " "Though if his grades don't pick up," said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still, "that may indeed be all he is fit for - " "It's not my fault," retorted Draco. "The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger - " "I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam," snapped Mr. Malfoy. "Ha!" said Harry under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both abashed and angry. — J.K. Rowling

On the other hand, if these four-Mr. Graces, the brutish Frank, the mysterious Mr. Liu, and rude little Henry-were the only company John had had for a hundred and sixty-odd years, it explained a lot about his brooding. — Meg Cabot

She remembered the lead ammunition in her pocket and offered it to him. "Your balls, Mr. Darcy?" He reached out and closed her hand around them, and offered, "They belong to you, Miss Bennet. — Seth Grahame-Smith

I'll put my hand in no man's hand,' said Mr. Micawber, gasping, puffing, and sobbing, to that degree that he was like a man fighting with cold water, 'until I have - blown to fragments - the - a - detestable - serpent - HEEP! I'll partake of no one's hospitality, until I have - a - moved Mount Vesuvius - to eruption - on - a - the abandoned rascal - HEEP! Refreshment - a - underneath this roof - particularly punch - would - a - choke me - unless - I had - previously - choked the eyes - out of the head - a - of - interminable cheat, and liar - HEEP! I - a - I'll know nobody - and - a - say nothing - and - a - live nowhere - until I have crushed - to - a - undiscoverable atoms - the - transcendent and immortal hypocrite and perjurer - HEEP! — Charles Dickens

Sasha groaned from beside her as he struggled with his belt. "I think I'm going to barf a hairball."
Jess let out a frustrated breath as he tried to loosen himself. "You can't. You're canine."
"Tell that to the hairball in my stomach."
Jess cursed as his hand slipped while he was trying to get loose. "Bet you're glad I made you fasten that seat belt now, aren't you, Mr. I-can-flash-myself-out-if-we-get-hit?"
Sasha groaned. "Shut up, asshole." He glared at Jess. "And I would have flashed out of the car, but because we were rolling, I didn't want to get hit by it. Damn those Rytis laws. — Sherrilyn Kenyon

I wonder," said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, "that he keeps that reminder of his sufferings about him!" "And why wonder at that?" was the abrupt inquiry that made him start. It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and had since improved. — Charles Dickens

Something else?" She huffed as she pushed from the table, grabbing her husband's empty coffee cup. "That's the nice way of saying they're bat shit crazy."
"Hey!" Mr Hamilton's head whipped around, eyes dancing. "You listen here, woman."
"You can listen to my foot up your ass if you call me woman again." Mrs Hamilton refilled the cup and reached for the sugar. "And you can take that to court."
Cam sighed and lowered his head.
I smothered my giggle with my hand. — J. Lynn

I still have your handkerchief, from the Yuletide."
"Raspberries, do you really?"
He produced a crumpled, clean handkerchief, and gave it to Azalea. She tried to hand him the watch, but he wouldn't take it.
"It's still for ransom, is it not?" he said. "I'll collect it when I set the tower again."
Azalea smiled, warmth rising to her cheeks. "Well, it has been awfully useful. Thank you, Lord Bradford."
He mounted with ease, even with the books, and smiled a crooked smile.
"Mr. Bradford," he said sheepishly.
"Mr. Bradford," said Azalea. And now, her cheeks burned. It wasn't unpleasant.
"Thank you," he said, tipping his hat. "For the pleasant evening. — Heather Dixon

Marriage, in my culture, has nothing to do with romance. It's a matter of logic. If Mr. and Mrs. Ahmadi like Mr. and Mrs. Nejari, then their children should get married. On the other hand, if the parents don't like each other, but the children do, well, this is where sad poetry comes from. — Firoozeh Dumas

Mr. Schock smiled at Peter and raised his hand into the air. Peter instinctively struck it in a perfect high five. Mr. Schock's smile transformed into a puzzeled frown.
"Joshua, how did you...?"
"Peter used to do it," said Peter swiftly. — Linda Buckley-Archer

Now don't tell anyone," she says, bustling in and sliding my dinner-table-cum-vanity over my lap. She sets down a paper napkin, plastic fork, and a bowl of fruit that actually looks appetizing, with strawberries, melon, and apple. "I packed it for my break. I'm on a diet. Do you like fruit, Mr. Jankowski?" I would answer except that my hand is over my mouth and it's trembling. Apple, for God's sake. She pats my other hand and leaves the room, discreetly ignoring my tears. — Sara Gruen

Then she took my hand and touched it to the wound beside her eye. I caressed the half-inch scar. As I did so, the waves of her consciousness pulsed through my fingertips and into me - a delicate resonance of longing. Probably someone should take this girl in his arms and hold her tight, I thought. Probably someone other than me. Someone qualified to give her something. Goodbye, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. See you again sometime. — Haruki Murakami

She, on the other hand, had blatantly exhibited the Sagittarius traits of excessive enthusiasm and bluntness. Mr. — Nina Lane

Then Frederica went towards him, holding out her hand, and he raised his eyes from Felix's eager countenance, and smiled at her, causing Mr. Moreton to suffer a shock. It was not at all the sort of smile with which his lordship beguiled his flirts, but something warmer and more intimate. Good God! mentally ejaculated Mr. Moreton. Sits the wind in that quarter? — Georgette Heyer

There is a commotion as the reporters vie for Eric's sound bite. Gradually, the crowd falls back to allow Emma Wasserstein passage. She shakes Eric's hand, and Chris's, and then leans forward to give Eric's briefcase back to him. But as she does, she comes close enough to whisper to me. "Mr. Hopkins," she says, a truth meant only for me, "I would have done it, too. — Jodi Picoult

The second thing which made speechless
a state my dad would have found amusing
was the fact Mr. Hunky gave me a masculine grin
a naughty one which made me cream my panties
and said in a velvety baritone, "Run along, sweetheart. I've got this."
Me, one of Hell's most successful bounty hunters, dismissed with a smile and a wave of his hand. His treatment made me want to tear his pants off and ride him like a cowgirl
I mean, he'd called me sweetheart, how hot was that?
while at the same time making me see red. I'm gonna wipe the smirk off his face. Then I'm gonna kiss him. Then.. — Eve Langlais

Of course, Mr. Hannity was outraged that any American would not cross her hand over her heart and repeat the hypocritical words, one nation. Whenever we come up on the Fourth of You Lie, I think of Frederick Douglas and his masterful oration, The meaning of the Fourth of July to the Negro. Pledge the flag? I think not! — Julianne Malveaux

After breakfast, determined to pass as little of the day as possible in company with Lady Lowborough, I quietly stole away from the company and retired to the library. Mr. Hargrave followed me thither, under pretence of coming for a book; and first, turning to the shelves, he selected a volume, and then quietly, but by no means timidly, approaching me, he stood beside me, resting his hand on the back of my chair, and said softly, 'And so you consider yourself free at last?'

'Yes,' said I, without moving, or raising my eyes from my book, 'free to do anything but offend God and my conscience. — Anne Bronte

He flicked his fingers out, just a whisper of a touch against the back of her hand. "You are brave, Miss Perry."
"I am what I have had to be, Mr. Frost." Her hand turned beneath his, and for a second they were palm against palm. "As are you. — Theresa Romain

I never had any thought the whole week. I figured my caddie [Jerry Beard] knew the course a lot better than me, so I put out my hand and played whatever club he put in it. I'd say, "How hard do I hit it?" He'd tell me and I'd swing. The guys who come down here once a year and try to get smart with Mr. Jones' course are the dumb ones. — Fuzzy Zoeller

Jeremy's T-Shirts by book:
Hard As It Gets
"ROUTE 69"
"This guy loves BACON" with two hands with their thumbs pointing back at him
"Orgasm Donor" with a red cross
Big Johnson's Tattoo Parlor, "You're going to feel more than a Little Prick"
"I'm not Santa but you can still sit on my lap"

Hard As You Can
Log-holding beaver that says, "Are you looking at my wood?"
"I put the long in schlong"

Hard to Hold On To
"Blink if you're horny"

Hard to Come By
Hand pointing downward and the words, "May I suggest the sausage?"
Charlie (who starts borrowing Jeremy's t-shirts): A smiling fire extinguished that says, "I put out"
Charlie: Schnauzer wearing a saddle that says, "Weiner Rides, 25 cents"
"HEAD Foundation. Please give generously"
Charlie: Mr. T with the words "Mr. T Shirt"
There's a party in my pants. You're invited. — Laura Kaye

Miss Lilly." Mr. Kan stood up and solemnly shook her hand. "When there is such a large gap of years between two friends, we Chinese call it wang nien chih chiao, a friendship that forgets the years. It's destiny that brings us together. I hope you will always think of me and Teddy as your friends. — Ken Liu

It was difficult to not compare the two men as they stood together. Mr. Beaufort was certainly dashing, with his stylish golden hair and the flair of his dress. But seeing him next to Philip, his appeal faded greatly in my mind. For it was obvious, comparing them side by side, that Mr. Beaufort was like a set of paste jewels - flashy on the outside but really an imposter, with nothing of great value within. Philip, on the other hand, shone like a real gem - without even trying. His clothes were just as well-made as Mr. Beaufort's, but he wore them with a natural, athletic grace, and he didn't employ any extreme fashions to create an impression. He was purely elegant, naturally, without thought or planning, and upon looking at them, I found that I would infinitely prefer the real gem to the imposter. — Julianne Donaldson

Eventually, Malta Kano withdrew her hand from mine and took several deep breaths. Then she nodded several times. "Mr. Okada," she said, "I believe that you are entering a phase of your life in which many different things will occur. The disappearance of your cat is only the beginning. — Haruki Murakami

TO MR. CYRIACK SKINNER UPON HIS BLINDNESS
Cyriack, this three years day these eys, though clear
To outward view, of blemish or of spot;
Bereft of light thir seeing have forgot,
Nor to thir idle orbs doth sight appear
Of Sun or Moon or Starre throughout the year,
Or man or woman. Yet I argue not
Against heavns hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear vp and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overply'd
In libertyes defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe talks from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content though blind, had I no better guide. — John Milton

For in this sickened world, it is better to believe in something too fiercely than to believe in nothing.' Words, words, wonderful words. But lies too. 'No, it isn't!' shouted Mosca the Housefly, Quillam Mye's daughter. 'Not if what you're believin' isn't blinkin' well True! You shouldn't just go believin' things for no reason, pertickly if you got a sword in your hand! Sacred just means something you're not meant to think about properly, an' you should never stop thinking! Show me something I can kick, and hit with rocks, and set fire to, and leave out in the rain, and think about, and if it's still standing after all that then maybe, just maybe, I'll start to believe in it, but not till then. An' if all we're left with is muck and wickedness and no gods, then we'd better face it and get used to it because it's better than a lie. Which is what you are, Mr Kohlrabi.' Mosca — Frances Hardinge

You nightmare, gasped and jerk up all at once where I bolt too, hand flown to rest on his kidneys. Confused bedclothes, the sulphurous dark. Worse for you, the same war, another battle so undoing that in daylight you won't admit it, nothing, nothing, avert and work. His purple-circled eyes could have been anywhere. She sets a pan, quietly, of biscuits. Bring me morning's water bucket, then turn wordless out. Finished enough, now I will out too, Mr. Whitman in scandalous hand with a leaf to hold my place. Rivering. Greening. It all stops, water too silty and feet booted, she crooks in a moss-tree and is lost, forgets even to ask for moccasins. I have wrapped fear into linen and hoped it into lavender, saved for funerary. At noon he looks; returns, admits. Across the tablecloth can ask Where did you come from. — JSA Lowe

When you are doing what I've asked you to do, you don't have to worry about getting to the farm. I'll bring you the farmer instead. And when you think you have lost sight of all your sketches, just know that it's okay. I know where the sketches are, what they need to be, and I will never leave you.
Let go of the grief and the sorrow. Release the anger and the plans set in stone. Because I hold your sketch in My hand the way Mr. Gentry did in his. I watch and I draw - even when you don't know. I am concerned with all things that concern you. — Angie Smith