Damp Survey Quotes

Thankfully, Gabriel was five minutes late, and by the time he knocked on the door I’d just finished putting on lipstick and slipping my feet into sandals. I opened the door. “I hope I didn’t keep you wait . . .” His voice drifted off as he quite blatantly checked me out. “What?” I asked, hand on my hip. He flashed me a devilish grin. “The little pink dress. You look cute.” What I found frumpy, he found cute. Wonder what his response would have been to the tight number. My eyes gave him a discreet once-over. He wore jeans and a Yankees T-shirt. It wasn’t exactly going to win over the locals, but I had to admit, he filled the shirt out ridiculously well. His short black hair was damp, like he’d just taken a shower. I felt my face behind to flush, so I turned away. “Come on in.” He stopped and surveyed the foyer. “I was only here for a minute when we came to get Joni. I didn’t get a chance to check the place out.” He paused. “It’s not what I was expecting.” “What were you expecting? Voodoo dolls hung from the ceiling?” He smirked. “Maybe just a little one of me.” “That’s hidden under my bed.

Pumblechook made out, after carefully surveying the premises, that he had first got upon the roof of the forge, and had then got upon the roof of the house, and had then let himself down the kitchen chimney by a rope made of his bedding cut into strips; and as Mr. Pumblechook was very positive and drove his own chaise-cart — over Everybody — it was agreed that it must be so. Mr. Wopsle, indeed, wildly cried out, “No!” with the feeble malice of a tired man; but, as he had no theory, and no coat on, he was unanimously set at naught,— not to mention his smoking hard behind, as he stood with his back to the kitchen fire to draw the damp out: which was not calculated to inspire confidence.

A storm. The ash tree cowers, the limestone glowers, dark and damp. I remember dropping a glass onto the patio once; it burst like a bubble, merlot flaring across the ground and flooding the veins of the stonework, black and bloody, crawling toward my feet. Sometimes, when the skies are low, I imagine myself overhead, in a plane or on a cloud, surveying the island below: the bridges spoked from its east coast; the cars sucked toward it like flies swarming a lightbulb. It's been so long since I felt the rain. Or wind - the caress of wind, I nearly said, except that sounds like something you'd read in a super-market romance. It's true though. And snow too, but snow I never want to feel again.

Am I considered a virtuous young lady?" He surveyed her thoughtfully. The stark black of her dress molded to her lush form, and the neckline, though demure by Lady Barbara's standards, was scandalously low for a proper young lady. Her gorgeous hair hung down her back, and her mouth was soft, damp, abominably kissable. There were also her eyes. Honey-brown, staring up at him with an unassailable innocence that only a complete fool would miss. But then, how many people would their time looking in her eyes when there were so many other delectable attributes to gaze upon? "Not likely," he said. "Anyone who spends time in my presence is tainted." He advanced on her slowly, giving her time to run. She didn't, but she wanted to. He could see the faint startled reflex in her eyes, the momentary flash of panic. But she held firm, tilting her chin up with just a trace of defiance. Poor child. Little did she know that her defiance enchanted him as much as her panic. He fastened the pearls around her neck, their rich luster luminous against her skin. He resisted the temptation to stroke her bruised flesh, the need to touch his mouth to that abrasion. He resisted the impulse to turn away from her, lock himself in his study, and immerse himself in brandy. He stepped back, a deceptive half smile on his face. "Lovely," he said.

I’m beginning to realize I shouldn’t have stayed away from Eversby Priory for so long,” she heard him say grimly. “The entire household is running amok.” Unable to restrain herself any longer, Kathleen went to the open gap in the doorway and glared at him. “You were the one who hired the plumbers!” she hissed. “The plumbers are the least of it. Someone needs to take the situation in hand.” “If you’re foolish enough to imagine you could take me in hand--” “Oh, I’d begin with you,” he assured her feelingly. Kathleen would have delivered a scathing reply, but her teeth had begun to chatter. Although the Turkish towel had absorbed some of the moisture from her clothes, they were clammy. Seeing her discomfort, Devon turned and surveyed the room, obviously hunting for something to cover her. Although his back was turned, she knew the precise moment that he spotted the shawl on the fireplace chair. When he spoke, his tone had changed. “You didn’t dye it.” “Give that to me.” Kathleen thrust her arm through the doorway. Devon picked it up. A slow smile crossed his face. “Do you wear it often?” “Hand me my shawl, please.” Devon brought it to her, deliberately taking his time. He should have been mortified by his indecent state of undress, but he seemed entirely comfortable, the great shameless peacock. As soon as the shawl was within reach, Kathleen snatched it from him. Casting aside her damp towel, she pulled the shawl around herself. The garment was comforting and familiar, the soft wool warming her instantly. “I couldn’t bring myself to ruin it,” she said grudgingly. She was tempted to tell him that even though the gift had been inappropriate…the truth was, she loved it. There were days when she wasn’t certain whether the gloomy widow’s weeds were reflecting her melancholy mood or causing it, and when she pulled the brilliant shawl over her shoulders, she felt instantly better. No gift had ever pleased her as much. She couldn’t tell him that, but she wanted to. “You look beautiful in those colors, Kathleen.” His voice was low and soft. She felt her face prickle. “Don’t use my first name.” “By all means,” Devon mocked, glancing down at his towel-clad form, “let’s be formal.

For years Angus McAllister had set before himself as his earthly goal the construction of a gravel path through the Castle’s famous yew alley. For years he had been bringing the project to the notice of his employer, though in anyone less whiskered the latter’s unconcealed loathing would have caused embarrassment. And now, it seemed, he was at it again. 'Gravel path!' Lord Emsworth stiffened through the whole length of his stringy body. Nature, he had always maintained, intended a yew alley to be carpeted with a mossy growth. And, whatever Nature felt about it, he personally was dashed if he was going to have men with Clydeside accents and faces like dissipated potatoes coming along and mutilating that lovely expanse of green velvet. 'Gravel path, indeed! Why not asphalt? Why not a few hoardings with advertisements of liver pills and a filling station? That’s what the man would really like.' Lord Emsworth felt bitter, and when he felt bitter he could be terribly sarcastic. 'Well, I think it is a very good idea,' said his sister. 'One could walk there in wet weather then. Damp moss is ruinous to shoes.' Lord Emsworth rose. He could bear no more of this. He left the table, the room, and the house, and, reaching the yew alley some minutes later, was revolted to find it infested by Angus McAllister in person. The head-gardener was standing gazing at the moss like a high priest of some ancient religion about to stick the gaff into the human sacrifice. 'Morning, McAllister,' said Lord Emsworth, coldly. 'Good morrrrning, your lorrudsheep.' There was a pause. Angus McAllister, extending a foot that looked like a violin-case, pressed it on the moss. The meaning of the gesture was plain. It expressed contempt, dislike, a generally anti-moss spirit; and Lord Emsworth, wincing, surveyed the man unpleasantly through his pince-nez. Though not often given to theological speculation, he was wondering why Providence, if obliged to make head-gardeners, had found it necessary to make them so Scotch. In the case of Angus McAllister, why, going a step farther, have made him a human being at all? All the ingredients of a first-class mule simply thrown away. He felt that he might have liked Angus McAllister if he had been a mule. 'I was speaking to her leddyship yesterday.' 'Oh?' 'About the gravel path I was speaking to her leddyship.' 'Oh?' 'Her leddyship likes the notion fine.' 'Indeed! Well——' Lord Emsworth’s face had turned a lively pink, and he was about to release the blistering words which were forming themselves in his mind when suddenly he caught the head-gardener’s eye and paused. Angus McAllister was looking at him in a peculiar manner, and he knew what that look meant. Just one crack, his eye was saying—in Scotch, of course—just one crack out of you and I tender my resignation. And with a sickening shock it came home to Lord Emsworth how completely he was in this man’s clutches. He shuffled miserably. Yes, he was helpless. Except for that kink about gravel paths, Angus McAllister was a head-gardener in a thousand, and he needed him. He could not do without him. Filled with the coward rage that dares to burn but does not dare to blaze, Lord Emsworth coughed a cough that was undisguisedly a bronchial white flag. 'I’ll—er—I’ll think it over, McAllister.' 'Mphm.' 'I have to go to the village now. I will see you later.' 'Mphm.' 'Meanwhile, I will—er—think it over.' 'Mphm.

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