Angel Of Greenwood Quotes

He was conscious of a cold and sickly thrill throughout him; and all he reasoned was this, that the young creature whose graces had intoxicated him into making the most imprudent decision of his life, was less an angel than a women.

And they need not cause you grief. As my Highland grandmother said—and she had the Sight—“Tis not the dead ye have to be concerned about! Beware of the Living!” And she was a wise woman. The dead are beyond your help or mine, poor things. But the living need us. Thirty souls at the least, Phryne, are still on that island to praise God who might now be angels—or devils.

The shocking death of a loved one isn't a wailing thing. The real shudder comes from the world moving on as if nothing's happened. Shops flip their Closed signs to Open, patrons gather at the theaters and soda shops, and people dare smile at things that make them happy, while those left in the ruins find joy in nothing.

The only space for Black Tulsans in the white imagination had become too successful. Too much of a threat,

No revolutionary cared so much how they were seen within the flawed world. They only cared for repairing it.

Working for one's own benefit is not work at all.

The Albion was a spacious pub, built in the days when a public house with any pretensions to gentility had to have fourteen foot ceilings, brass taps and a polished wooden bar you skate down. ... Bert, in his reflective moments, considered that if heaven didn't have a well-appointed pub where a man could sit down over a beer for a yarn with the other angels, then he didn't want to go there.

June 1, 1921, idyllic, prosperous, exceptional Greenwood was looted and burned by white rioters. In a span of fewer than twenty-four hours, thirty-five city blocks were charred, over eight hundred people were treated for injuries, and historians have estimated that somewhere between one hundred and three hundred lives were lost.

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see? Coming for to carry me home A band of Angels coming after me Coming for to carry me home.

Greenwood chipped in to help prop up Isaiah's household. He, therefore, was quietly indepted to them all, even his best friend. Isaiah could never show himself as he truly was on the inside. He could only acquiesce and get through the day.

Isaiah was not one man, but two—himself and his black shadow—following him, sometimes pestering him, to utilize his own ingenuity in order to navigate the world made complicated by the color of his skin.

saddlebags. “And please tell Kiri she should put her shoes on. Lucas will have a fit if she serves like that.” “Mummy, why do I have to put on shoes? Kiri isn’t wearing any.” George met Gwyneira and her daughter in the corridor outside his room just as he was about to go down to dinner. He had done his best as far as evening wear went. Though slightly wrinkled, his light brown suit was handsomely tailored and much more becoming than the comfortable leather pants and waxed jacket he had acquired in Australia. Gwyneira and the captivating little red-haired girl who was squabbling so loudly were likewise elegantly attired. Though not in the latest fashion. Gwyneira was wearing a turquoise evening gown of such breathtaking refinement that, even in the best London salons, it would have created a stir—especially with a woman as beautiful as Gwyneira modeling it. The little girl wore a pale green shift that was almost entirely concealed by her abundant red-gold locks. When Fleur’s hair hung down loose, it frizzed a bit, like that of a gold tinsel angel. Her delicate green shoes matched the adorable little dress, but the little one obviously preferred to carry them in her hands than wear them on her feet. “They pinch!” she complained. “Fleur, they don’t pinch,” her mother declared. “We just bought them four weeks ago, and they were on the verge of being too big then. Not even you grow that fast. And even if they do pinch, a lady bears a small degree of pain without complaining.” “Like the Indians? Ruben says that in America they take stakes and hurt themselves for fun to see who’s the bravest. His daddy told him. But Ruben thinks that’s dumb, and so do I.” “That’s her opinion on the subject of being ‘ladylike,’” Gwyneira remarked, looking to George for help. “Come, Fleurette. This is a gentleman. He’s from England, like Ruben’s mummy and me. If you behave properly, maybe he’ll greet you by kissing your hand and call you ‘my lady.’ But only if you wear shoes.” “Mr. McKenzie always calls me ‘my lady’ even if I walk around barefoot.” “He must not come from England, then,” George said, playing along. “And he certainly hasn’t been introduced to the queen.” This honor had been conferred on the Greenwoods the year before, and George’s mother would probably chatter on about it for the rest of her

Epigraph But man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he’s most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven, As would make the angels weep. —William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure