Becky Hill Quotes

Okay, anyone who says “me likey”? Should be punched in the balls. That is my hill to fucking die on.

I cannot love two people at once," Becky told William. "No. You can't," he said. "Well, then. That's all right, then. Of course one can't, I mean to say, I wasn't sure you hadn't mistaken any aspect of our friendship for something else." Her heart stood still and it raced, all at once. "Because you don't love him," William said.

What a lucky girl you are to have this opportunity to live in one of the world's great cities at this most fascinating point in its long, rich history, they had said. Little Becky had known enough not to ask if there was going to be a Banana Republic or a Gap there, or a Tower Records or a Starbucks or a Tweeters or a Blockbuster or a Super CVS or a Saks. Her mother only mentioned museums and concert halls and churches and architecture, so Little Becky was quite sure there was no room left in Prague for anything good to be built.

Most of the time this is something people say when their houses are immaculate, and the idea is you say, ‘Oh, you should see mine,’ or something similar. In this case it really was a mess, and Nina found it enormously relaxing. She counted two more dogs, older and less enthusiastic, who nonetheless waved their tails at her from their sleeping stations on the sofa and floor. Several cats were watching her cautiously, or sarcastically—it’s always hard to tell with cats—and the whole place was covered with a fine patina of fur. There was a vague smell of woodsmoke and the inside of dogs’ ears. Nina and Peter followed Becky through the living room into what turned out to be the kitchen, which was marginally cleaner, at least in places. An older man was sitting at the table, deseeding an acorn squash. “Hi there,” he said. “I’m John. I’m Peter’s stepdad.” He waved his sticky hands at her. “Welcome to chaos central.

The day after she went to walk on the Pincian Hill—the Hyde Park of the Roman idlers—possibly in hopes to have another sight of Lord Steyne. But she met another acquaintance there: it was Mr. Fiche, his lordship's confidential man, who came up nodding to her rather familiarly and putting a finger to his hat. "I knew that Madame was here," he said; "I followed her from her hotel. I have some advice to give Madame." "From the Marquis of Steyne?" Becky asked, resuming as much of her dignity as she could muster, and not a little agitated by hope and expectation. "No," said the valet; "it is from me. Rome is very unwholesome." "Not at this season, Monsieur Fiche—not till after Easter." "I tell Madame it is unwholesome now. There is always malaria for some people. That cursed marsh wind kills many at all seasons. Look, Madame Crawley, you were always bon enfant, and I have an interest in you, parole d'honneur. Be warned. Go away from Rome, I tell you—or you will be ill and die.

The missing girl's name was Rebecca, or Becky, or Bex. In the photo her face was half turned away from the camera as though she didn't want to be seen, as though she wanted to be somewhere else. She would be twenty years old by now but she was always spoken of as a girl. It had been seven years, and there was talk that now she would legally have to be declared dead. This turned out to have no basis in law, according to a statement released by the police. Any such declaration would always depend on the circumstances. The girl's parents had never stopped looking and the police statement confirmed that the case remained open. In the village people looked up to the hills and felt that they'd long known. She could have walked high over the moor and stumbled into a flooded clough and sunk cold and deep in the wet peat before the dogs and thermal cameras came anywhere near, her skin tanned leather-brown and soft and her hair coiled neatly around her. She could have fallen anywhere and be lying there still.