Emerald Green Dress Quotes

You're not wearing that," he informed me. "Yes,I am." "No,you're not." "Yes,I am." "You'll look ridiculous." "I beg your pardon?" I said, affronted. "There's nothing wrong with your dress, or the way it fits you," he clarified with a roll of his eyes, as if he were explaining the obvious to a simpleton. "But it just won't do." "And why not?" "Your attire doesn't complement mine at all." This as entirely accurate and pleased me greatly. He wore black pants and an ivory shirt under a fitted gold-and-emerald-green doublet, an emsemble that made him appear annoyingly godlike, but which was very near horrendous next to sky blue. "Then our garb will complement our personalities," I retorted.

She could see why men and women through the ages had become besotted with opals. It was as though an almighty hand had scooped a palmful of emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, and pearls and mixed their radiant hues. Fit for a queen. Such a noble stone.

A MAN HITS YOU ONCE and apologizes, and you think it will never happen again. But then you tell him you’re not sure you ever want a family, and he hits you once more. You tell yourself it’s understandable, what he did. You were sort of rude, the way you said it. You do want a family someday. You truly do. You’re just not sure how you’re going to manage it with your movies. But you should have been more clear. The next morning, he apologizes and brings you flowers. He gets down on his knees. The third time, it’s a disagreement about whether to go out to Romanoff’s or stay in. Which, you realize when he pushes you into the wall behind you, is actually about the image of your marriage to the public. The fourth time, it’s after you both lose at the Oscars. You are in a silk, emerald-green, one-shoulder dress. He’s in a tux with tails. He has too much to drink at the after-parties, trying to nurse his wounds. You’re in the front seat of the car in your driveway, about to go inside. He’s upset that he lost. You tell him it’s OK. He tells you that you don’t understand. You remind him that you lost, too. He says, “Yeah, but your parents are trash from Long Island. No one expects anything from you.” You know you shouldn’t, but you say, “I’m from Hell’s Kitchen, you asshole.

The fourth time, it’s after you both lose at the Oscars. You are in a silk, emerald-green, one-shoulder dress. He’s in a tux with tails. He has too much to drink at the after-parties, trying to nurse his wounds. You’re in the front seat of the car in your driveway, about to go inside. He’s upset that he lost. You tell him it’s OK. He tells you that you don’t understand. You remind him that you lost, too. He says, “Yeah, but your parents are trash from Long Island. No one expects anything from you.” You know you shouldn’t, but you say, “I’m from Hell’s Kitchen, you asshole.” He opens the parked car’s door and pushes you out. When he comes crawling to you in tears the next morning, you don’t actually believe him anymore. But now this is just what you do. The same way you fix the hole in your dress with a safety pin or tape up the crack in a window. That’s the part I was stuck in, the part where you accept the apology because it’s easier than addressing the root of the problem, when Harry Cameron came to my dressing room and told me the good news. Little Women was getting the green light.

A flaming red flapper dress, a sleek black dress with full, satin purple sleeves and a matching flounce, a summery cotton frock with a cheerful red poppy print, and a musketeer's gold-trimmed jacket tumbled out of the pile of clothing. A mound of scarves fluttered onto the bed. Marge fingered the frayed, tasseled edge of a silk jacquard scarf in shades of amethyst and emerald green.

When Elizabeth finally descended the stairs on her way to the dining room she was two hours late. Deliberately. “Good heavens, you’re tardy, my dear!” Sir Francis said, shoving back his chair and rushing to the doorway where Elizabeth had been standing, trying to gather her courage to do what needed to be done. “Come and meet my guests,” he said, drawing her forward after a swift, disappointed look at her drab attire and severe coiffure. “We did as you suggested in your note and went ahead with supper. What kept you abovestairs so long?” “I was at prayer,” Elizabeth said, managing to look him straight in the eye. Sir Francis recovered from his surprise in time to introduce her to the three other people at the table-two men who resembled him in age and features and two women of perhaps five and thirty who were both attired in the most shockingly revealing gowns Elizabeth had ever seen. Elizabeth accepted a helping of cold meat to silence her protesting stomach while both women studied her with unhidden scorn. “That is a most unusual ensemble you’re wearing, I must say,” remarked the woman named Eloise. “Is it the custom where you come from to dress so…simply?” Elizabeth took a dainty bite of meat. “Not really. I disapprove of too much personal adornment.” She turned to Sir Francis with an innocent stare. “Gowns are expensive. I consider them a great waste of money.” Sir Francis was suddenly inclined to agree, particularly since he intended to keep her naked as much as possible. “Quite right!” he beamed, eyeing the other ladies with pointed disapproval. “No sense in spending all that money on gowns. No point in spending money at all.” “My sentiments exactly,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “I prefer to give every shilling I can find to charity instead.” “Give it away?” he said in a muted roar, half rising out of his chair. Then he forced himself to sit back down and reconsider the wisdom of wedding her. She was lovely-her face more mature then he remembered it, but not even the black veil and scraped-back hair could detract from the beauty of her emerald-green eyes with their long, sooty lashes. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them-shadows he didn’t recall seeing there earlier in the day. He put the shadows down to her far-too-serious nature. Her dowry was creditable, and her body beneath that shapeless black gown…he wished he could see her shape. Perhaps it, too, had changed, and not for the better, in the past few years. “I had hoped, my dear,” Sir Francis said, covering her hand with his and squeezing it affectionately, “that you might wear something else down to supper, as I suggested you should.” Elizabeth gave him an innocent stare. “This is all I brought.” “All you brought?” he uttered. “B-But I definitely saw my footmen carrying several trunks upstairs.” “They belong to my aunt-only one of them is mine,” she fabricated hastily, already anticipating his next question and thinking madly for some satisfactory answer. “Really?” He continued to eye her gown with great dissatisfaction, and then he asked exactly the question she’d expected: “What, may I ask, does your one truck contain if not gowns?” Inspiration struck, and Elizabeth smiled radiantly. “Something of great value. Priceless value,” she confided. All faces at the table watched her with alert fascination-particularly the greedy Sir Francis. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, love. What’s in it?” “The mortal remains of Saint Jacob.

Gina hoisted herself up onto her elbows and gaped at Spike. "So that's the famous Spike I've been hearing so much about from your brothers? Damn, he is ugly." Jesse, who'd stayed where he was, looked defensive. Spike was his baby, and you just don't go around calling Jesse's baby ugly. "He's not so bad," I said, hoping Gina would get the message and shut up. "Are you on crack?" Gina wanted to know. "Simon, the thing's only got one ear." Suddenly, the large, gilt-framed mirror above the dressing table started to shake. It had a tendency to do this whenever Jesse got annoyed - really annoyed. Gina, not knowing this, stared at the mirror with growing excitement. "Hey!" she cried. "All right! Another one!" She meant an earthquake, of course, but this, like the one before, was no earthquake. It was just Jesse letting off steam. Then the next thing I knew, a bottle of finger-nail polish Gina had left on the dressing table went flying and, defying all gravitational law, landed upside down in the suitcase she had placed on the floor at the end of the daybed, around seven or eight feet away. I probably don't need to add that the bottle of polish - it was emerald green - was uncapped. And that it ended up on top of the clothes Gina hadn't unpacked yet. Gina let out a terrified shriek, threw back the comforter, and dove to the floor, trying to salvage what she could. I, meanwhile, threw Jesse a very dirty look. But all he said was, "Don't look at me like that, Susannah. You heard what she said about him." He sounded wounded. "She called him ugly.

Melissa turned back to the mirror and drew a breath; the girl she knew was gone. In her place was a woman in rustling green silk and emeralds, a woman who would turn heads at the ball. From the top of her powdered head to the soles of her silk shod feet, she was elegantly dressed and more than ready to attend the ball. The earrings fell from her ears in waterfalls of tiny emeralds and her necklace was a heavy engraved affair of gold, the emeralds in the scrolled settings large and dazzling. Green suited her it seemed.

Drake stood speechless. Admiration- and something else Serena could not quite identify, pride perhaps- showing from his eyes. "Turn around," his deep voice commanded softly. "I would see all of you." She turned slowly, holding back a delighted laugh. Her gown was gold, the color of the amber flecks in her eyes, with a green-and-gold-striped underskirt and matching puffed sleeves. Emeralds hung from her ears, swaying provocatively and catching the candlelight from the wall scones. A choker wrapped around her neck and tiny tear-shaped jewels sparkled from her hair. It had taken the combined urgings of her personal maid and the housekeeper to convince her it was acceptable to wear such a low-cut gown in public. Elegant gloves covered her arms to the elbows with an emerald and gold bracelet on one wrist and a Chinese fan dangling from the other. "I knew you would be beautiful dressed as my duchess, but Serena, I am speechless. The men will adore you and the women will envy you." He spoke the last in an underbreath, as though to himself.

Overall look: Soft and delicate   Hair: Most often blonde or golden grey   Skintone: Light, ivory to soft beige, peachy tones. Very little contrast between hair and skin   Eyes: Blue, blue-green, aqua, light green IF you are a Light Spring you should avoid dark and dusty colors, which would make you look pale, tired and even pathetic. Spring women who need to look strong, for example chairing a meeting, can do so by wearing mid-tone grey or light navy, not deeper shades. If you are a Light Spring and you wear too much contrast, say a light blouse and dark jacket, or a dress with lots of bold colors against a white background, you ‘disappear’ because our eye is drawn to the colors you are wearing. See your Light Spring palette opposite. Your neutrals can be worn singly or mixed with others in a print or weave. The ivory, camel and blue-greys are good investment shades that will work with any others in your palette. Your best pinks will be warm—see the peaches, corals and apricots—but also rose pink. Never go as far as fuchsia, which is too strong and would drain all the life from your skin. Periwinkle blue toned with a light blue blouse is a smart, striking alternative to navy and white for work. Why wear black in the evening when you will sparkle in violet (also, warm pink and emerald turquoise will turn heads)? For leisure wear, team camel with clear bright red or khaki with salmon.   Make-Up Tips Foundation: Ivory, porcelain Lipstick: Peach, salmon, coral, clear red Blush: Salmon, peach Eyeshadow for blue eyes: Highlighter Champagne, melon, apricot, soft pink Contour Soft grey, violet, teal blue, soft blues, cocoa Eyeshadow for blue-green and aqua eyes: Highlighter Apricot, lemon, champagne Contour Cocoa or honey brown, spruce or moss green, teal blue Eyeshadow for green eyes: Highlighter Pale aqua, apricot, champagne Contour Cocoa or honey brown, teal blue, violet, spruce.

Darcy had been punched in the gut plenty, but never had he been nearly doubled over by the sight of a woman. Malina came out of Edmund and Fran’s bedroom dressed in his mother’s finest gown, which he’d plucked from the wardrobe up at Fraineach after deciding with no small amount of self-flagellation that he’d go through with Aodhan’s plan. The gown draped her from shoulder to floor in forest-green velvet. Gold ribbon wrapped her just below her bosom in a high waistline that hid the gentle swell of her belly. Ivory silk covered her arms and graced her neckline, which was low and so tight her creamy bosom pressed at the silk as if impatient to burst free. She cleared her throat and he realized he’d been staring at that low neckline and the bounty it tried in vain to conceal. He snapped his eyes up to hers. They blazed with emerald humor. “I see I’m about the same height as your mother,” she said, poking the toe of her borrowed slipper from under the hem. Fran bustled around her, frowning at the poor gown’s straining neckline. “Aye, though ye’re a bit more—” She pressed her lips and made a motion with her hands in the general vicinity of her own bosom. “As am I, dear, as am I. ’Tis tight, but ’twill have to do. By the look on poor Darcy’s face, I dinna think he minds.” He scowled at his sister-in-law before giving Malina his full attention. “You are lovely,” he told her, his eyes catching on the heather crown perched amidst her silvery hair. “So lovely.

Remember what I told you, Nerissa.  Spare no expense when it comes to dressing her.  I want her out of those hideous colors and fabrics she's in now, and into something that will show her coloring to greatest advantage." "Silks, satins, velvets?" "Yes, and the finest, most expensive ones Madame has."  Lucien's enigmatic black eyes had gleamed with sly delight before he'd turned away and, his forefinger tapping his lips once, twice, continued on.  "And dramatic colors only — no pastels for that girl, no more washed out yellows and wretched browns that only make her look sallow and ill.  She's no English rose and shouldn't be dressed like one.  No, I want her in blazing scarlet, brilliant turquoise, emerald green, magenta — loud, startling hues that will flatter her exotic coloring and make every man at the ball unable to take his eyes off her."  He'd given a dangerous little smile.  "Especially Charles . . ." Nerissa had returned his grin.  "Especially Charles." "Just take care, my dear, that he does not learn of the purchases you'll make for the girl at Madame Perrot's.  Let him think the shopping trip is for you, and that Amy is along as . . . as training to be a lady's maid.  Ah, yes.  That will throw him off the scent quite nicely, I think — as well as make him seriously begin to question, if he has not already, whether he wants her to be a lady's maid or his lady."  He had grinned then, as delighted with his machinations as he must've been when he'd brought Gareth and Juliet together.  "It is imperative that he is, shall we say, pleasantly surprised when he sees his little friend at Friday night's ball . . ." Even

I think about it. I don’t stop thinking about it, even after I finish painting the woman’s dress with burnt orange and crimson and topaz yellow. I paint because it’s the next step—what does it mean if there isn’t another step? Drawing feels so open and skeletal. My sketchbook is a collection of imprints from my soul. They aren’t finished—they need to be colored in, and decorated, and turned into something much prettier than what they are. If I don’t have emerald greens and magentas and lilacs, I just have Kiko. Black-and-white. Bare and smudged. I’m not confident enough to let my drawings speak for me. I need my paintings to say something else entirely. Maybe this is my problem. Maybe this is what Hiroshi has been trying to tell me. My paintings aren’t honest enough. Cringing, I close my eyes and picture what the starfish woman will look like when she is finished. She’s vibrant and beautiful and commands the attention of the painting. But this isn’t her story. And then my mind pictures the girl standing behind her, hidden behind the luminous splendor. She’s gray and plain, but she’s beautiful, too, in her own way. But the woman will never see it because she’s too busy being beautiful herself. The painting isn’t about the starfish. It’s about the girl who wants to venture out into the ocean, away from the starfish, so she can feel like she matters. Because the girl will never matter to the starfish. In the finished painting in my head, the girl will finally know this. It’s the honest story I want to tell. I will make this painting the truest painting I’ve ever done. And after that . . . I will swim into the ocean.

I like the slow, smooth roll of the great big trains—and they are the best trains in the world! I like being drawn through the green country and looking at it through the clear glass of the great windows. Though, of course, the country isn't really green. The sun shines, the earth is blood red and purple and red and green and red. And the oxen in the ploughlands are bright varnished brown and black and blackish purple; and the peasants are dressed in the black and white of magpies; and there are great Rocks of magpies too. Or the peasants' dresses in another field where there are little mounds of hay that will be grey-green on the sunny side and purple in the shadows—the peasants' dresses are vermilion with emerald green ribbons and purple skirts and white shirts and black velvet stomachers. Still, the impression is that you are drawn through brilliant green meadows that run away on each side to the dark purple fir-woods; the basalt pinnacles; the immense forests. And there is meadowsweet at the edge of the streams, and cattle.

It was the finest dress I had ever owned: dull silk, of a colour as much green as it was brown that made my eyes gleam like mahogany, painted asymmetrically with vines of delicate vermillion roses; along the bosom, the cinched waist, and the fully draped sleeves were barred pairs of emerald stripes. A single cascade of tiny buttons dripped from neck to waist, and it occurred to me, seeing the mischievous tilt to my lips, that I had never looked better.

The signals stretched out of sight ahead, like a python with scales of red and green, their radiance haloed in a light fog that was drifting in off the Bay. And people were out, little knots of them near the corners. They formed isolated clots of gaudy life, like tidepools, all of them dressed in baggy clothes of bright-colored nylon, paneled and logo-ed with surreal pastels under the emerald-and-ruby signal glare. And as they stood and talked together, they moved in a way both fitful and languid, like sealife bannering in a restless sea.

The thing about Ativahikas is not that they’re giant, or sapient, or weirdly gorgeous, though they are all of these things. When they haven’t been horribly butchered, they look a bit like a Ferian leafy sea-dragon or those motile sea-trees from Desireninex. They’re seaweedy and ragged and layered in fringe like the dress of a medieval queen and their algae turns them into a shifting, iridescent play of brilliant teal, and jade and emerald greens. And the reason people kill them is not for any intrinsic quality of their own-it’s for those algae. Or the metabolic byproducts there of.

The man was tall and thin, with ratty brown hair and pale skin. He had ochre eyes and a black clinical mask. What he didn't have was any taste in clothes, anyone with half a brain would know that purple and khaki green make an appalling combination, and those were the colours on his combat jacket with its feather boa-style collar. Even more weirdly he'd gone for a black dress shirt and silver tie beneath. Okay maybe now wasn't the time for Bakugou to judge the guy's dress sense. But it was fucking shitty.

The dress was perfect, every inch of it, covering me in emerald green drapery that flowed like the boughs of a weeping willow, the bodice embellished with crushed pearls that made a whispery sound when I moved.

I follow his gaze and my eyes land on a woman in a long emerald-green dress. Black embroidered decorations accentuate the neckline and her tiny waist, and then flow along the edges of a high slit, revealing one slender leg. My eyes trail the slit upward until they stop at her face, and I almost fail to recognize her. She’s removed the nose ring. Her hair is different as well and is pulled up on the top of her head in some complicated design. I can hardly believe this is the same woman I met a few days earlier. The men at the table are mumbling between each other, and I wish they would shut up so I can enjoy the view in peace.

She wore an emerald green cocktail dress that stopped above the knee, revealing the long expanse of torturous leg. An arrogant hat was pinned into her hair, the feathers and artificial leaves curling upwards. She had kept the hat on in exchange for one compromise; she got to remove her shoes. The heels were beside her feet, ready to be toed back on at a moment’s notice. Or at gun point.

except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day. But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes – the get-ups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt – these people were obviously collecting for something … yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Mr Dursley arrived in the Grunnings car park, his mind back on drills. Mr Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at night-time. Mr Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunch-time, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the baker’s opposite. He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. This lot were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying. ‘The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard –’ ‘– yes, their son, Harry –’ Mr Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it. He

that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work and Mrs Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. None of them noticed a large tawny owl flutter past the window. At half past eight, Mr Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs Dursley on the cheek and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. ‘Little tyke,’ chortled Mr Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four’s drive. It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar – a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr Dursley didn’t realise what he had seen – then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive – no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove towards town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day. But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes – the get-ups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But

You haven't even seen my shoes. She lifted the hem of her skirt to show off a pair of pointy-toed emerald-green heels inlaid with jade flowers. They matched the emerald-green lace that trimmed the bust of her dress and were easily the most amazing shoes she had ever seen, let alone slipped onto her feet. Oooh! Bill squealed. Very rococo. So, I'm really doing this? I'm just going to go down there and pretend-- No pretending. Bill shook his head. Own it. Own that cl**vage, girl, you know you want to.

I grabbed the hanger and ducked back into my room to slip on my dress, and it was, indeed, flattering. The red fabric gathered at the bust, swept down my sides, and came out in a wispy trumpet shape at my knees. I put on the leather jacket, and though I never would have picked this out myself, again, Emerald was right. I didn't feel so green and scared, but rather strong and protected. No wonder so many women in New York wore leather. "You look incredible!" Emerald jumped up and down when I stepped out into the living room. Then she calmed herself by admiring her work. "Oh, the red looks so good on your skin. And the leather. It's too perfect. Keep those. They don't fit me anymore." "Wow!" Elliott said. "You look great." "One last thing," Emerald added. "Take this purse and seal the deal. It's the latest Proenza Schouler bag. The PS1 is done and now they're onto this. It won't be in stores for another year." I looked down at the purse, a blue, green, and gold rectangle with inlaid triangles and textures. Some pony hair, some leather, maybe snake or skate?