Hazel Brown Eyes Quotes

As always, there was an all-American war hero look to him, coded in his tousled brown hair, his summer-narrowed hazel eyes, the straight nose that ancient Anglo-Saxons had graciously passed on to him. Everything about him suggested valor and power and a firm handshake.

He was gorgeous, and I absolutely, no question, had to be drooling. After a quick and hopefully stealthy check – big show, I wasn’t!- I found myself wonder what color his eyes were. Brown maybe. Or even hazel. Either way…wow, just wow. Deer? Headlights? Hi, I’m Ali.

He feels it, too. His eyes widen. A lovely hazel. Green with flecks of brown and gold. The colors I love. The colors of the earth.

[Tyson] looked him over with that massive baby-brown eye. “You are not dead. I like it when you are not dead.” Ella fluttered to the ground and began preening her feathers. “Ella found a dog,” she announced. “A large dog. And a Cyclops.” Was she blushing? Before Percy could decide, his black mastiff pounced on him, knocking Percy to the ground and barking so loudly that even Arion backed up. “Hey, Mrs. O'Leary,” Percy said. “Yeah, I love you, too, girl. Good dog.” Hazel squeaked. “You have a hellhound named Mrs. O'Leary?” “Long story.

I sometimes used to ask myself, what on earth did I love her for? Maybe fore the warm hazel iris of her fluffy eyes, or for the natural side-wave of her brown hair, done anyhow, or again for that movement of her plump shoulders. But, probably the truth was that I loved her because she loved me. To her I was the ideal man: brains, pluck. And there was none dressed better. I remember once, when I first put on that new dinner jacket, with the vast trousers, she clapsed her hands, sank down on a chair and murmured: 'Oh, Hermann...." It was ravishment bordering upon something like heavenly woe.

He liked the way she talked. There was something in her eyes too. He saw it the first time when she had said, 'I've seen you before many times, and I always remembered you.' Josiah could not remember ever seeing her before, but there was something in her hazel brown eyes that made him believe her.

Footfalls in the hallway, outside the door, alerted Audun to the fact that they had company. The steps were light, a woman’s step, Audun suddenly thought. A moment later the woman entered the room. Her light brown hair was tinged with grey, and the rich black velvet gown she wore spoke to her status. The hazel eyes swept the room. In that instant Audun knew with certainty the identity of his visitor. “Good morning, grandmother. Have you come to offer me my crown?” Robert Reid – The Son

It was like staring into the face of a familiar stranger. You know, that person you see in a crowd and swear you know, but you really don't? Now she was me - the familiar stranger. She had my eyes. They were the same hazel color that could never decide whether it wanted to be green or brown, but my eyes had never been that big and round. Or had they? She had my hair - long and straight and almost as dark as my grandma’s had been before hers had begun to turn silver. The stranger had my high cheekbones, long, strong nose, and wide mouth - more features from my grandma and her Cherokee ancestors. But my face had never been that pale. I’d always been olive-ish, much darker skinned than anyone else in my family. But maybe it wasn’t that my skin was suddenly so white ... maybe it just looked pale in comparison to the dark blue outline of the crescent moon that was perfectly positioned in the middle of my forehead. Or maybe it was the horrid fluorescent lighting. I hoped it was the lighting. I stared at the exotic-looking tattoo. Mixed with my strong Cherokee features it seemed to brand me with a mark of wildness ... as if I belonged to ancient times when the world was bigger ... more barbaric. From this day on my life would never be the same. And for a moment — just an instant—I forgot about the horror of not belonging and felt a shocking burst of pleasure, while deep inside of me the blood of my grandmother’s people rejoiced.

It’s funny how easily we can see love in movies or books but it’s so hard to see it in our own lives.

And her eyes, violet, like the sky before a storm. Ralph and Trish had brown eyes. Max's were hazel. But Ondine. No, Ondine's eyes had to be purple, wide set, and heavily lashed. Beyonce and Yoda's love child.

It is a stubble field, where a black rain is falling. It is a brown tree, that stands alone. It is a hissing wind, that encircles empty houses. How melancholy the evening is. A while later, The soft orphan garners the sparse ears of corn. Her eyes graze, round and golden, in the twilight And her womb awaits the heavenly bridegroom. On the way home The shepherd found the sweet body Decayed in a bush of thorns. I am a shadow far from darkening villages. I drank the silence of God Out of the stream in the trees. Cold metal walks on my forehead. Spiders search for my heart. It is a light that goes out in my mouth. At night, I found myself on a pasture, Covered with rubbish and the dust of stars. In a hazel thicket Angels of crystal rang out once more.

Janus found himself drawn to the edge of the rink, staring fixedly at Candace as she approached: grinning, puffing steam, her cheeks flushed, her brown hair peeking out from under a knitted cap, her hazel eyes sparkling green and gold in the bright winter sun. She wore a wool riding coat, brilliant red trimmed with black, which stood out amid the ice like a ruby on white gold. Janus thought she had never looked more beautiful than she did in that moment, with all her cares and duties laid aside for the pure joy of living. Janus wanted to freeze the moment in his memory and carry it forever: This is what happiness looks like. I never knew.

He wasn’t exactly handsome, not at first glance, but there was something in those dark brown eyes that might cause Hazel to forget Chopin for a moment or two. If she would ever look up.

A girl in my high school once told me I had pretty eyes. I was puffed up over that until I was like thirty. You wouldn’t believe how stupid guys get over compliments on our looks, I was vain as. But my eyes weren’t anything special—light brown, not even hazel, yellow on a sunny day. The morning after the lights went out they lighted to dark amber, then they went the colour of new lager, and on the third day they were gold. P—said I looked like a Māori TV Pink Panther. C— said I looked like Edward Cullen from that old Twilight movie, if Edward Cullen had the body of a history teacher. A— said I looked cool. He was the only one.

Sonny's lips twisted in a way I'd only seen once before. Barely restrained anger hid beneath the thick layer of his red-brown beard. "That f**king dumbass," he ground out. He cocked his head to one side, and then the other. A deep breath blew out from between his lips. "I'm gonna knock his teeth in." He was being completely serious. So, so serious about defending my honor, I couldn't help it. I started laughing. "It's fine." I snorted. "Son, it's really fine. Knock his teeth in another day." I laughed again. "Or maybe once I find another job, okay? Then you can bust all his teeth and his kneecaps for all I care." Those hazel eyes that were an exact replica of mine, narrowed. And then he quirked a little smile. "His kneecaps too?" I shrugged. "Why not? Call him a friggin' idiot while you do it." Sonny shook his head, full out grinning by that point. "To think I used to call you a good girl. My little sis telling me to break someone's kneecaps. You might make me cry, Ris." He leaned forward across the armchair I was sitting in and ruffled my hair. "Thatta girl." I snorted and batted his hand away.

I told her that it was a bad idea," Edythe mumbled under her breath. "Must be nice to know everything." Edythe sent Tyr a silencing sideways glance. "I'm practical." "And openly opinionated," Tyr added matter-of-factly. "And usually right," Edythe added, turning to face him squarely. She wished he wasn't so good-looking. Deep dimples, dark hazel eyes, and reddish-brown shoulder-length hair, the color she wished hers were instead of its intense auburn hue, all in a superior male body. Men that handsome weren't to be trusted.

He trotted over with a big grin on his face. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt and nothing for pants except thick brown goat fur. His massive Afro jiggled. His eyes were hidden behind little round rainbow-tinted glasses. He held a cardboard sign that read: WILL WORK SING TALK GO AWAY FOR DENARII. “Hi, Don,” Hazel said. “Sorry, we don’t have time—” “Oh, that’s cool! That’s cool!” Don trotted along with them. “Hey, this guy’s new!” He grinned at Percy. “Do you have three denarii for the bus? Because I left my wallet at home, and I’ve got to get to work, and—” “Don,” Hazel chided. “Fauns don’t have wallets. Or jobs. Or homes. And we don’t have buses.” “Right,” he said cheerfully, “but do you have denarii?

I so want to believe him, for this to be true, for what we did to have had no consequences. But there are no actions without consequences, are there? Even without the drink spiking, the way we treated Maria would have had an impact on her, possibly for the rest of her life. It would have affected her relationships, her friendships, her confidence. Maybe it did. Maybe it’s still affecting her now. The thought skims across the surface of my mind, unbidden, and I see her in my mind’s eye, not as smooth-skinned as she was and with a few lines on her face, but still recognisably Maria, with her hazel eyes and long brown hair, sitting in front of a computer, sending out her hatred over the ether to Sophie, to me

In 1976, a doctoral student at the University of Nottingham in England demonstrated that randomizing letters in the middle of words had no effect on the ability of readers to understand sentences. In tihs setncene, for emalxpe, ervey scarbelmd wrod rmenias bcilasaly leibgle. Why? Because we are deeply accustomed to seeing letters arranged in certain patterns. Because the eye is in a rush, and the brain, eager to locate meaning, makes assumptions. This is true of phrases, too. An author writes “crack of dawn” or “sidelong glance” or “crystal clear” and the reader’s eye continues on, at ease with combinations of words it has encountered innumerable times before. But does the reader, or the writer, actually expend the energy to see what is cracking at dawn or what is clear about a crystal? The mind craves ease; it encourages the senses to recognize symbols, to gloss. It makes maps of our kitchen drawers and neighborhood streets; it fashions a sort of algebra out of life. And this is useful, even essential—X is the route to work, Y is the heft and feel of a nickel between your fingers. Without habit, the beauty of the world would overwhelm us. We’d pass out every time we saw—actually saw—a flower. Imagine if we only got to see a cumulonimbus cloud or Cassiopeia or a snowfall once a century: there’d be pandemonium in the streets. People would lie by the thousands in the fields on their backs. We need habit to get through a day, to get to work, to feed our children. But habit is dangerous, too. The act of seeing can quickly become unconscious and automatic. The eye sees something—gray-brown bark, say, fissured into broad, vertical plates—and the brain spits out tree trunk and the eye moves on. But did I really take the time to see the tree? I glimpse hazel hair, high cheekbones, a field of freckles, and I think Shauna. But did I take the time to see my wife? “Habitualization,” a Russian army-commissar-turned-literary-critic named Viktor Shklovsky wrote in 1917, “devours works, clothes, furniture, one’s wife, and the fear of war.” What he argued is that, over time, we stop perceiving familiar things—words, friends, apartments—as they truly are. To eat a banana for the thousandth time is nothing like eating a banana for the first time. To have sex with somebody for the thousandth time is nothing like having sex with that person for the first time. The easier an experience, or the more entrenched, or the more familiar, the fainter our sensation of it becomes. This is true of chocolate and marriages and hometowns and narrative structures. Complexities wane, miracles become unremarkable, and if we’re not careful, pretty soon we’re gazing out at our lives as if through a burlap sack. In the Tom Andrews Studio I open my journal and stare out at the trunk of the umbrella pine and do my best to fight off the atrophy that comes from seeing things too frequently. I try to shape a few sentences around this tiny corner of Rome; I try to force my eye to slow down. A good journal entry—like a good song, or sketch, or photograph—ought to break up the habitual and lift away the film that forms over the eye, the finger, the tongue, the heart. A good journal entry ought be a love letter to the world. Leave home, leave the country, leave the familiar. Only then can routine experience—buying bread, eating vegetables, even saying hello—become new all over again.

All researches have failed to fix with any certainty the exact year of Flush’s birth, let alone the month or the day; but it is likely that he was born some time early in the year 1842. It is also probable that he was directly descended from Tray (c. 1816), whose points, preserved unfortunately only in the untrustworthy medium of poetry, prove him to have been a red cocker spaniel of merit. There is every reason to think that Flush was the son of that “real old cocking spaniel” for whom Dr. Mitford refused twenty guineas “on account of his excellence in the field.” It is to poetry, alas, that we have to trust for our most detailed description of Flush himself as a young dog. He was of that particular shade of dark brown which in sunshine flashes “all over into gold.” His eyes were “startled eyes of hazel bland.” His ears were “tasselled”; his “slender feet” were “canopied in fringes” and his tail was broad.

The example cited most often was a gradual change in eye color among Moirans. Eve Moira’s eyes had been hazel: relatively light in color by the standards of black people, but not all that unusual. By the end of the Second Millennium, many Moirans had eyes so pale in color as to appear golden in strong light. On the walls of the Great Chain’s fashion stores, blown up to ten times life size, Moiran fashion models still gazed at you through shockingly yellow, catlike eyes. Because pale eyes had been a distinctive characteristic of Eve Moira, it had become thought of as beautiful and desirable, and Moirans with pale eyes had found it easier to mate and reproduce, intensifying the trait over time, to the point of caricature. Kath Two herself, no model, was frequently complimented on the lightness of her eyes, which were closer to green than yellow. But modern, appearance-conscious Moirans were frequently startled when they saw photographs of their Eve with her eyes that were merely greenish-brown.

The mind craves ease; it encourages the senses to recognize symbols, to gloss. It makes maps of our kitchen drawers and neighborhood streets; it fashions a sort of algebra out of life. And this is useful, even essential - X is the route to work, Y is the heft and feel of a nickel between your fingers. Without habit, the beauty of the world would overwhelm us. We'd pass out every time we saw - actually saw - a flower. Imagine if we only got to see a cumulonimbus cloud or Cassiopeia or a snowfall once a century: there'd be pandemonium in the streets. People would lie by the thousands in the fields on their backs. We need habit to get through a day, to get to work, to feed our children. But habit is dangerous, too. The act of seeing can quickly become unconscious and automatic. The eye sees something - gray-brown bark, say, fissured into broad, vertical plates - and the brain spits out tree trunk and the eye moves on. But did I really take the time to see the tree? I glimpse hazel hair, high cheekbones, a field of freckles, and I think Shauna. But did I take the time to see my wife?

Az, this one's for you.' The shadowsinger's brows lifted, but his scarred hand extended to take the present. Elain turned from where she'd been spreaking to Nesta. 'Oh, that's from me.' Azriel's face didn't so much as shift at the words. Not even a smile as he opened the present and revealed- 'I had Madja make it for me,' Elain explained. Azriel's brows narrowed at the mention of the family's preferred healer. 'It's a powder to mix in with any drink.' Silence. Elain bit her lip and then smiled sheepishly. 'It's for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.' Silence again. Then Azriel tipped his head back and laughed. I'd never heard such a sound, deep and joyous. Cassian and Rhys joined him, the former grabbing the bottle from Azriel's hand and examining it. 'Brilliant, 'Cassian said. Elain smiled again, ducking her head. Azriel mastered himself enough to say, 'Thank you.' I'd never seen his hazel eyes so bright, the hues of green amid the brown and grey like veins of emerald. 'This will be invaluable.' 'Prick, ' Cassian said, but laughed again.

I could feel the adrenaline—adrenaline called into being by her fear—shoot through my limbs as I contemplated switching to a more pliant body. It would be nice to be alone again. To have my mind to myself. This world was very pleasant in so many novel ways, and it would be wonderful to be able to appreciate it without the distractions of an angry, displaced nonentity who should have had better sense than to linger unwanted this way. Melanie squirmed, figuratively, in the recesses of my head as I tried to consider it rationally. Maybe I should give up…. The words themselves made me flinch. I, Wanderer, give up? Quit? Admit failure and try again with a weak, spineless host who wouldn’t give me any trouble? I shook my head. I could barely stand to think of it. And… this was my body. I was used to the feel of it. I liked the way the muscles moved over the bones, the bend of the joints and the pull of the tendons. I knew the reflection in the mirror. The sun-browned skin, the high, sharp bones of my face, the short silk cap of mahogany hair, the muddy green brown hazel of my eyes—this was me. I wanted myself. I wouldn’t let what was mine be destroyed.

He did not look like a pirate. He looked... familiar. There was something there, in the handsome angles and deep, wicked shadows, the hollows of his cheeks, the straight line of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw- in need of a shave. Yes, there was something there- a whisper of recognition. He wore a pin-striped cap dusted with snow, the brim of which cast his eyes into darkness. They were a missing piece. She would never know from where the instinct came- perhaps from a desire to discover the identity of the man who would end her days- but she could not stop herself from reaching up and pushing the hat back from his face to see his eyes. Only later it would occur to her that he did not try to stop her. His eyes were hazel, a mosaic of browns and greens and greys, framed by long, dark lashes, spiked with snow. She would have known them anywhere, even if they were far more serious now than she'd ever seen them before. Shock coursed through her, followed by a thick current of happiness. He was not a pirate. "Michael?" He stiffened at the sound of his name, but she did not take the time to wonder why. She flattened her palm against his cold cheek- an action at which she would later marvel- and laughed, the sound muffled by the snow falling around them. "It is you, isn't it?" He reached up, pulling her hand from his face. He wasn't wearing gloves, and still, he was so warm. And not at all clammy.

As they formed into ranks, each man dropping silently into his place, Sir Nigel ran a questioning eye over them, and a smile of pleasure played over his face. Tall and sinewy, and brown, clear-eyed, hard-featured, with the stern and prompt bearing of experienced soldiers, it would be hard indeed for a leader to seek for a choicer following. Here and there in the ranks were old soldiers of the French wars, grizzled and lean, with fierce, puckered features and shaggy, bristling brows. The most, however, were young and dandy archers, with fresh English faces, their beards combed out, their hair curling from under their close steel hufkens, with gold or jewelled earrings gleaming in their ears, while their gold-spangled baldrics, their silken belts, and the chains which many of them wore round their thick brown necks, all spoke of the brave times which they had had as free companions. Each had a yew or hazel stave slung over his shoulder, plain and serviceable with the older men, but gaudily painted and carved at either end with the others. Steel caps, mail brigandines, white surcoats with the red lion of St. George, and sword or battle-axe swinging from their belts, completed this equipment, while in some cases the murderous maule or five-foot mallet was hung across the bowstave, being fastened to their leathern shoulder-belt by a hook in the centre of the handle. Sir Nigel's heart beat high as he looked upon their free bearing and fearless faces.

to look at Louisa, stroked her cheek, and was rewarded by a dazzling smile. She had been surprised by how light-skinned the child was. Her features were much more like Eva’s than Bill’s. A small turned-up nose, big hazel eyes, and long dark eyelashes. Her golden-brown hair protruded from under the deep peak of her bonnet in a cascade of ringlets. “Do you think she’d come to me?” Cathy asked. “You can try.” Eva handed her over. “She’s got so heavy, she’s making my arms ache!” She gave a nervous laugh as she took the parcel from Cathy and peered at the postmark. “What’s that, Mam?” David craned his neck and gave a short rasping cough. “Is it sweets?” “No, my love.” Eva and Cathy exchanged glances. “It’s just something Auntie Cathy’s brought from the old house. Are you going to show Mikey your flags?” The boy dug eagerly in his pocket, and before long he and Michael were walking ahead, deep in conversation about the paper flags Eva had bought for them to decorate sand castles. Louisa didn’t cry when Eva handed her over. She seemed fascinated by Cathy’s hair, and as they walked along, Cathy amused her by singing “Old MacDonald.” The beach was only a short walk from the station, and it wasn’t long before the boys were filling their buckets with sand. “I hardly dare open it,” Eva said, fingering the string on the parcel. “I know. I was desperate to open it myself.” Cathy looked at her. “I hope you haven’t built up your hopes, too much, Eva. I’m so worried it might be . . . you know.” Eva nodded quickly. “I thought of that too.” She untied the string, her fingers trembling. The paper fell away to reveal a box with the words “Benson’s Baby Wear” written across it in gold italic script. Eva lifted the lid. Inside was an exquisite pink lace dress with matching bootees and a hat. The label said, “Age 2–3 Years.” Beneath it was a handwritten note:   Dear Eva, This is a little something for our baby girl from her daddy. I don’t know the exact date of her birthday, but I wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten. I hope things are going well for you and your husband. Please thank him from me for what he’s doing for our daughter: he’s a fine man and I don’t blame you for wanting to start over with him. I’m back in the army now, traveling around. I’m due to be posted overseas soon, but I don’t know where yet. I’ll write and let you know when I get my new address. It would be terrific if I could have a photograph of her in this little dress, if your husband doesn’t mind. Best wishes to you all, Bill   For several seconds they sat staring at the piece of paper. When Eva spoke, her voice was tight with emotion. “Cathy, he thinks I chose to stay with Eddie!” Cathy nodded, her mind reeling. “Eddie showed me the letter he sent. Bill wouldn’t have known you were in Wales, would he? He would have assumed you and Eddie had already been reunited—that he’d written with your consent on behalf of you both.” She was afraid to look at Eva. “What are you going to do?” Eva’s face had gone very pale. “I don’t know.” She glanced at David, who was jabbing a Welsh flag into a sand castle. “He said he was going to be posted overseas. Suppose they send him to Britain?” Cathy bit her lip. “It could be anywhere, couldn’t it? It could be the other side of the world.” She could see what was going through Eva’s mind. “You think if he came here, you and he could be together without . . .” Her eyes went to the boys. Eva gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod, as if she was afraid someone might see her. “What about Eddie?” “I don’t know!” The tone of her voice made David look up. She put on a smile, which disappeared the

The opponent seemed to shift slightly in the seat. His index finger tapped a card, just a couple strokes. There it was the card that ruined his hand. Her hazel eyes release the player across from her to steal a glance registering the emotion of observers around the table then to her best friend. Sophie looks like a Nervous Nelly-she, always worries. She knows the girl will put too much emphasis on a lost hand. The striking man with his lusty brown eyes tries to draw Sophie closer. Now that he has folded and left the game, he is unnecessary, and the seasoned flirt easily escapes his reach. He leaves with a scowl; Sophie turns and issues knowing wink. Ell’s focus is now unfettered, freeing her again to bring down the last player. When she wins this hand, she will smile sweetly, thank the boys for their indulgence, and walk away $700 ahead. The men never suspected her; she’s no high roller. She realizes she and Sophie will have to stay just a bit. Mill around and pay homage to the boy’s egos. The real trick will be leaving this joint alone without one of them trying to tag along. Her opponent is taking his time; he is still undecided as to what card to keep—tap, tap. He may not know, but she has an idea which one he will choose. He attempts to appear nonchalant, but she knows she has him cornered. She makes a quick glance for Mr. Lusty Brown-eyes; he has found a new dame who is much more receptive than Sophie had been. Good, that small problem resolved itself for them. She returns her focuses on the cards once more and notes, her opponent’s eyes have dilated a bit. She has him, but she cannot let the gathering of onlookers know. She wants them to believe this was just a lucky night for a pretty girl. Her mirth finds her eyes as she accepts his bid. From a back table, there is a ruckus indicating the crowd’s appreciation of a well-played game as it ends. Reggie knew a table was freeing up, and just in time, he did not want to waste this evening on the painted and perfumed blonde dish vying for his attention. He glances the way of the table that slowly broke up. He recognizes most of the players and searches out the winner amongst them. He likes to take on the victor, and through the crowd, he catches a glimpse of his goal, surprised that he had not noticed her before. The women who frequent the back poker rooms in speakeasies all dress to compete – loud colors, low bodices, jewelry which flashes in the low light. This dame faded into the backdrop nicely, wearing a deep gray understated yet flirty gown. The minx deliberately blended into the room filled with dark men’s suits. He chuckles, thinking she is just as unassuming as can be playing the room as she just played those patsies at the table. He bet she had sat down all wide-eyed with some story about how she always wanted to play cards. He imagined she offered up a stake that wouldn’t be large but at the same time, substantial enough. Gauging her demeanor, she would have been bold enough to have the money tucked in her bodice. Those boys would be eager after she teased them by retrieving her stake. He smiled a slow smile; he would not mind watching that himself. He knew gamblers; this one was careful not to call in the hard players, just a couple of marks, which would keep the pit bosses off her. He wants to play her; however, before he can reach his goal, the skirt slips away again, using her gray camouflage to aid her. Hell, it is just as well, Reggie considered she would only serve as a distraction and what he really needs is the mental challenge of the game not the hot release of some dame–good or not. Off in a corner, the pit boss takes out a worn notepad, his meaty hands deftly use a stub of a pencil to enter the notation. The date and short description of the two broads quickly jotted down for his boss Mr. Deluca. He has seen the pair before, and they are winning too often for it to be accidental or to be healthy.

The nurse -- square-jawed and deeply tanned but with warm brown eyes -- advised Susan to leave her purse with her friend, and in that moment of turning back to hand over the strap of her bag, Annie saw that Susan was trembling, trembling slightly, almost imperceptibly, but also thoroughly, from her fingertips to her shoulders to the smooth flesh of her pretty face, lips, scalp, even the ends of her pale hair. In that moment she saw, too, how Susan had fixed her eyes -- brown not hazel -- on some distant point, some point out of the room, out of this particular ten thirty on a Tuesday morning in late August, out of this strange office building in Manhattan, and onto a place after which this would be done, gotten through, gotten over. Annie took her friend's bag but did not aim, again, to smile at her or to offer any encouragement. Later, wading through the war stuff, she wondered if what Susan had shown her in that moment -- trembling, looking ahead -- could be called courage. And wondered why it was assumed that courage was always put to some noble end.

sábado, 2 de mayo de 2015 23:41:14 tall, muscular, and dark. He had an olive complexion and dark, almost-black hair, and he oozed power and sex appeal. ========== Mis recortes - Tu subrayado en la posición 57-60 | Añadido el sábado, 2 de mayo de 2015 23:41:33 Long, light brown hair, light brown eyes, slender-ish body—definitely not skinny. I’d never be skinny; I enjoyed sweet goods too much. My skirt and top looked plain and boring. Though, ultimately, I was happy with my reflection. My makeup had held up well. My eyes looked big and bright, thanks to the mascara and eyeliner, and my red lipstick was killer. I looked pretty, if not gorgeous. And I was fine with that. I wasn’t really one who liked to be the center of attention. Not normally. ========== Mis recortes - Tu subrayado en la posición 54-55 | Añadido el sábado, 2 de mayo de 2015 23:41:46 his hazel eyes—an ever-changing mingling of green, gray, and brown—were resting on her face with faint amusement, as if she was making a fool

Deke met them on the porch and led the way into the house. Taller than the Dawson brothers, he was every bit as handsome with thick brown hair that he wore long enough to be sexy, hazel eyes, and broad shoulders. Women tended to flock to him like a moth to a burning candle. But taming Deke would be harder than training a Dawson cowboy to the halter. He was full of tough cowboy charm, and it would take a special woman to rope him and get him aimed toward the altar.

His eyes were unusual, too. Almost too light to be human and they were first aqua then hazel...now reddish-brown and glowing with fury.

She can never in this lifetime or the next try to convince me that this is my baby. She’s every bit of Scott from her sandy brown hair to her almost white complexion and light hazel eyes.

swung his long legs out of bed, and plunged his feet into a basin of cold water—a lifelong habit he believed good for his health.2,3,4 At Monticello, his plantation in the Southwest Mountains near the Blue Ridge of Virginia, the metal bucket brought to Jefferson every morning wore a groove on the floor next to the alcove where he slept.5 Six foot two and a half, Jefferson was nearly fifty-eight years old in the Washington winter of 1800–1801.6 His sandy hair, reddish in his youth, was graying; his freckled skin—always susceptible to the sun—was wrinkling a bit.7,8,9 His eyes were penetrating but elusive, alternately described as blue, hazel, or brown.10 He had great teeth.11 It was early February 1801. The capital, with its muddy avenues and scattered buildings, was in chaos, and had been for weeks.12 The future of the presidency was

Pike didn’t like this business about guns. He studied her face, trying to read her. Her eyes were light brown, almost hazel, but not. A vertical line cut the skin between her eyebrows, matched by a scar on her upper lip. No laugh lines, but no frown lines, either. Pike didn’t like her certainty. “How did you find me?” She made an offhand shrug, her face as flat as a Texas highway, ignoring his question.

his hazel eyes—an ever-changing mingling of green, gray, and brown—were resting on her face with faint amusement, as if she was making a fool of herself.

He glances at my tattooed hand again—probably looking for a gang symbol, which he won’t find. Then he studies my face, like he’s trying to memorize it for the cops, just in case: about seventeen years old, olive-skinned male, dark brown hair, hazel eyes, five foot eight, looks like a homeless junkie. He’d be right about everything but the junkie part. I am homeless these days. Everything I own is in the backpack I’m wearing.

I stared at him, trying to see what a stranger would see. He did have great hair; it was thick and dark brown and fell slightly over his forehead. But his eyes were the nicest part of him, they were this neat hazel color and they crinkled up when he joked around. He had a nice smile, but I could still remember when he wore braces. Body-wise, I already knew he was built because I went to the gym with him and he could bench 250. But usually when I looked at his body, I was more envious of his upper body strength than thinking anything, well, sexual.

Lovely and slender, with light-brown hair and hazel eyes, she was well known for her intelligence and quick wit, all qualities that had been whittled away with age to reveal a shrunken version of herself.

She shook hands with Logan (long, golden hair, gentle blue eyes, and hot) and Steve (soft waves of shoulder-length brown hair, dreamy brown eyes, and hot). Snuck another peek at Max (dark brown, trendy short hair, deep hazel eyes, and hotter) and then Dare (silky, sleek jet-black hair, intense green eyes, and the hottest).

I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Griswold,” Edgar said as he sent a bow Miss Griswold’s way. “However, before more pleasantries can be exchanged, I have a matter of the utmost importance to attend to—that matter concerning the lady still trying to make what appears to be a less than stealthy attempt at escape.” He turned and set his sights on Wilhelmina once again. Interestingly enough, while he’d been conversing with the ladies who’d evidently been tasked with hiding Wilhelmina from view—the evidence of that notion being that the two ladies had taken to mumbling apologies to her under their breaths—Wilhelmina had obviously been trying to slip farther under the chair. The result of that nasty business, however, had simply led to her now appearing to be well and truly stuck. Pushing his way through the first row of chairs, he tilted his head and allowed himself the luxury of simply considering Wilhelmina for a long moment. The years they’d been apart hadn’t changed her appearance much, except that she was now a more mature lady—being almost twenty-five instead of the near infant she’d been at seventeen. Her brown hair was swept up in a simple style away from her face, and the hint of pink staining her cheeks lent her a charming air, one that suggested she was getting a bit flustered. That idea had his lips curving straight into a smile as he leaned down and caught her eye. “Honestly, Willie, in all the years we’ve been apart, I never once considered the idea that when I finally returned to New York society, you’d go to such extremes to avoid me.” Wilhelmina’s hazel eyes immediately took to flashing. “I don’t like it when you call me Willie. And who said I’m attempting to avoid you?” The flashing, an immediate reminder of Wilhelmina’s adorable temper, had his smile turning into a grin. “Since these delightful young ladies were trying their very best to distract me from seeing you—and they were doing a remarkably credible job until I caught sight of the top of that chair you’re under moving—I don’t understand why you’re arguing with me.” Wilhelmina released a dramatic sigh. “Oh, very well. You’re right. I was trying to avoid you.” She caught his eye, looked incredibly grumpy for all of five seconds, and then released another sigh before the makings of a grin spread over her face. “Since you’ve clearly caught me in my attempt to escape, and I’ve somehow managed to get stuck while in the process of that attempt, could I possibly persuade you to be a dear and help me out of this particular pickle I’ve landed myself in?” The

As soon as I was through the door, Brandon was hugging me and reaching for the pictures. “Look at him! He was asleep, but look at him sucking his thumb!” I exclaimed. Mom and Bree giggled when they passed us. Yeah, not fooling them. He dropped down to a squat and put his hands tenderly on my stomach, “Hey little man!” Brandon’s deep husky voice was warm and melodic whenever he spoke to him. “How could you sleep through the whole appointment, huh? Your momma was hoping to see you moving around today. Next time, right buddy?” I watched the one sided conversation, biting my lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. Brandon would be such a good father. Whoa. Where did that come from? Don’t go down that road Harper. Brandon stood back up and absentmindedly began tracing shapes along my stomach. “What did Dr. Lowdry say?” “She said everything’s great!” That was another thing, he always asked how I felt and how the appointments went. Even Konrad and Dad didn’t do that, “I go back in another two weeks, she said he’s still big, so there’s a possibility she’s going to put me on bedrest after my next appointment to try to keep him in there as long as possible.” “Bedrest?” His hazel eyes looked worried, “But she said everything is okay?” I smoothed out his furrowed brow, and stared at his eyes. I’d finally figured them out. They were brown if he was shirtless, or wearing a brown or white shirt. Gray if he was wearing a black or gray shirt. Green was pretty self-explanatory, he had to be wearing green, and any other color would make his eyes the perfect mix of the three. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. If I have to, it’s just to make sure he doesn’t come too early.

The expression "Red Man" was used to describe the Indian by the white traders. It came from the fact that some of the Indian tribes painted themselves with red oxide. Actually, the color of Indian skin varies from very light yellow or olive color, to very dark brown. Their eyes vary in color from black, brown, or hazel to gray or even blue; their hair from straight, coarse black to soft brown. Some Indians are tall and straight with high cheek bones, while others are short, round, and squat.

I do wish I could have given you the care he might have, as I know I am lacking in his talent and experience.” He looked down and paused before meeting her gaze. “I do hope you know I did my best for you. Though I suspect, given the choice, you would not have had me here.” Regret dumped on her back like a wagon-load of dirt. “I... I hope you do not think—” How to say it? “You are a gifted physician, Nathaniel.” “Not like your father.” The temptation to reach for his hand made her grip the sheet. “You are.” “You would trust him with anything.” She nodded. “Of course.” Nathaniel paused, the depth in his voice expanding warm and wide. “What about me?” “What do you mean?” His eyes slipped from hazel to brown. “Would you trust me the same way?” “You know I would,” she whispered. “You would trust me with anything?

As always, there was an all-American war hero look to him, coded in his tousled brown hair, his summer-narrowed hazel eyes, the straight nose that ancient Anglo-Saxons had graciously passed on to him. Everything about him suggested valor and power and a firm handshake. Girlfriend

The sisters' voices were almost identical, laughing mezzos tuned in childhood to the same pitch and timbre. To the ear, they were twins; to the eye, nothing alike. Emily was tall and slender with her hair cropped short. She wore a pinstriped suit, elegant slacks, tiny, expensive glasses. She was an MBA, not a programmer, and it showed. Magnified by her glasses, her hazel eyes were clever, guarded, and also extremely beautiful. Her features were delicate, her fingers long and tapered. She scarcely allowed her back to touch her chair, while Jess curled up with her legs tucked under her. Jess was small and whimsical. Her face and mouth were wider than Emily's, her cheeks rounder, her eyes greener and more generous. She had more of the sun and sea in her, more freckles, more gold in her brown hair. She would smile at anyone, and laugh and joke and sing. She wore jeans and sweaters from Mars Mercantile, and her hair... who knew when she'd cut it last?

Vane met her wide gaze, and managed not to smile wolfishly- no need to frighten the prey. The view he now had- of delectable curves filling a gown of ivory sprigged muslin in a manner he fully approved- was every bit as enticing as the view that first held him- the gorgeous curves of her derriere clearly delineated beneath taut fabric. When she'd shifted, so had those curves. He couldn't remember when a sight had so transfixed him, had so tantalized his rake's senses. She was of average height, her forehead level with his throat. Her hair, rich brown, lustrously sheening, was confined in a sleek knot, bright tendrils escaping to wreathe about her ears and nape. Delicate brown brows framed large eyes of hazel brown, their expression difficult to discern in the gloom. Her nose was straight; her complexion creamy. Her pink lips simply begged to be kissed. He'd come within a whisker of kissing them, but tasting an unknown lady before the requisite introductions was simply not good form. His silence had allowed her to steady her wits; he sensed her growing resistance, sensed the frown gathering in her eyes. Vane let his lips curve. He knew precisely what he wanted to do- to her, with her; the only questions remaining were where and when.

As always, there was an all-American war hero look to him, coded in his tousled brown hair, his summer-narrowed hazel eyes, the straight nose that ancient Anglo-Saxons had graciously passed on to him. Everything about him suggested valor and power and a firm handshake.

His hazel eyes were more green than brown today.

Austin smiles at me while Leah argues with Hazel. Now that I know he’s Ezra’s new maybe-special friend, I pay a little more attention to him than I would have before. He kind of reminds me of a golden retriever, with his floppy blond hair and blue eyes. The first time I saw him in acrylics class, I kind of immediately hated the guy. He’s the sort of person the world adores, just based on the way he looks, a little like the way people obsess over men like Chris Hemsworth and Chris Evans and Chris Pine and all the other famous Chrises, plus Ryan Gosling, claiming that they’re liberal and that they aren’t racist and that they’re feminists, but not really thinking about why they’re so obsessed with white men, and why they don’t love any people of color the same way. I love that I have brown skin. I love that I’m queer, and that I’m trans. But sometimes, I can’t help but think how much easier my life would be if I was someone like Austin.

I’d never seen a man move like Dash, with confidence and charisma in every step. His hazel eyes, a vibrant swirl of green and gold and brown, threatened to lure me under his spell.

Your eyes, Their glamorous radiance, Their eternal, heavenly warmth, Their delicate and intricate beauty, The desire to see that twinkle, That gorgeous hazel glow, Overwhelms me, Hazel, the most beautiful Shade of green, Like splashes of sunlight, painting The trembling woods a patchwork of Deep ambers and throbbing reds, Like a shrouded sky, suffocating By melting greys and inky blacks, Like the rippling of chestnut browns And pine greens on a trembling tree, Your eyes, they seem, are Always distracted, Always thinking, Always swirling with hidden embers And falling leaves, They hold so many secrets That I wish I could read, Mesmerising, perplexing, surreal, How I longed to be drowned in Those dizzying pools of colours And never be found again, I adore your hazel eyes, How they utterly charm me, Like the richly brilliant stars, They truly are a masterpiece

Curiosity poisoned the cat, you know.” Devon frowned. “I thought it killed the cat.” “Not in my version.” “Where did you get your version?” “My Aunt Mildred.” “You don’t have an Aunt Mildred.” “You don’t remember her? Brown hair. Pointy nose. Crooked front teeth. Huge mole on her chin. Hazel eye.” Tanner’s brow creased. “Eye? Not Eyes?” “She lost the other eye,” Khloé told him.“Snake bite.” “You do not have an aunt named Mildred,” Devon insisted. “I do! Seriously, why would I lie about it?” “No idea. But then, I have no idea why you do half the things you do.” “And I have no idea how you could forget Mildred.

soon as she reached the ground, she ran to Arion and threw her arms around his neck. ‘I missed you!’ She pressed her face into the horse’s warm flank, which smelled of sea salt and apples. ‘Where have you been?’ Arion nickered. Hazel wished she could speak Horse like Percy could, but she got the general idea. Arion sounded impatient, as if saying, No time for sentiment, girl! Come on! ‘You want me to go with you?’ she guessed. Arion bobbed his head, trotting on the spot. His dark brown eyes gleamed with urgency.

You'd think I'd never seen him before, but whoa. Pierce was hot. Possibly hotter than the last time I'd seen him. Tall with brown hair and a body that showed just how much he worked out. Hazel eyes with more green than brown. Something about his jaw made him seem older than he actually was.

Dylan Caruso, the one in all black with silvery-white hair and black roots, rings and tattoos all over his hands, seductive hooded eyes covered in kohl, and a killer smile, flicks a lighter on and off. Alistair King sits next to him in his black netted outfit covered in thick jewelry, his curly, light-brown hair softly swishing in the wind, and a devilish smirk on his pale face as he looks down at the girls. But worst of all is Felix Rivera … a brown-haired guy with a face so sharply cut and intense sanpaku hazel eyes so deeply sunken in that it does honor to his society’s name.

I took another step closer, until we were near enough to one another that I could see all the variations of color within his dark eyes. They weren't a monochromatic brown, like they appeared from a distance. His irises contained very subtle pinpricks of hazel as well, combining with the brown to create the richest, most beautiful eye color I'd ever seen.

Megan was a tall awkward girl, and although she was actually twenty, she looked more like a schoolgirlish sixteen. She had a shock of untidy brown hair, hazel green eyes, a thin bony face, and an unexpected charming one-sided smile. Her clothes were drab and unattractive and she usually had on lisle thread stockings with holes in them.

As I ready to throw myself into the comforting arms of the unknown, faces flick through my mind. Bright hazel eyes and perfect blonde hair. A silent, secretive smile and soft brown curls. Playful blue waves and an optimistic grin. Inky black strands and overwhelming regret. I teeter on the edge and reply to the images in my head. Goodbye. I’m sorry.

The same. Sure. You, with your freckles and your bright open eyes that your mom probably says are hazel or even green even though they’re basically just brown. You, a team player. You, going by Ian, and getting away with it.

CLAIRE I don’t know when I started to hate my husband. I didn’t always. When we tied the knot over ten years ago, we held hands and I swore I would love him forever. Until death did us part. And I meant it. I meant it with every fiber of my being. I genuinely believed I would be married to Noah Matchett for the rest of my life. I fantasized about the two of us growing old together—holding hands while sitting in matching rocking chairs in a retirement home. And when the minister declared us husband and wife, I patted myself on the back for choosing the right guy. I’m not sure what happened between then and now. But I can’t stand the guy anymore. “Where’s my UChicago shirt, Claire?” Noah is hunched over the top drawer of his dresser, his eyebrows bunched together as his hazel eyes stare down into the contents of the drawer. He clears his throat, which is what he always does when he’s concentrating hard on something. I used to find it cute and endearing. Now I find it irritating. Nails on a chalkboard irritating. “I don’t know.” I grab a couple of shirts out of my own dresser drawer and shove them into the brown luggage gaping open on our bed. “It’s not in the drawer?” He looks up from the drawer and purses his lips. “If it were in the drawer, why would I be asking you about it?

His eyes were as liquid as run honey, dark clover honey, and his hair was a rich brown with bronze sun straks, but his beard, like his eyebrows, was black. His face and hands were the colour of walnut, or perhaps elm bark, but lighter where his sleeves rose above his wrists. He was not thick-boned and heavy-muscled like Cei, but whippy as a hazel rod, and she knew she would not face him lightly in battle.

Joanie’s treatment of me wore me down, so I started to gravitate toward her cousin Robin, who was alpha like Joanie but in an entirely different direction. Robin was a full-on flower child and lesbian, a beauty with cocoa-brown skin, hazel eyes, and natural hair down her back. In fitted Levi’s jean suits and boys’ shoes, she turned people’s heads with her braless breasts pointed out like little missiles.

Outside, the grandchildren from California looked at Grandma Eunice with curiosity as they played near her. Some walked up to her to shake her hand. They had brunette to light brown hair, light complex skin and hazel colored eyes with Native American characteristics quite prominent They showed a trait noticeable in their appearance [...] Once upon a time and era, they too, have been looked upon like the elderly in the rest homes; like they didn't exist, outcast and shamed to be part of a human race that their blood should ever mix among mankind. Yet, these were her bloodlines too, and they were here, laughing, joking, teasing and accepting each other

One Night with her Boss (Adams, Noelle) - Tu subrayado en la posición 1206-1208 | Añadido el viernes, 24 de abril de 2015 8:37:48 his hazel eyes—an ever-changing mingling of green, gray, and brown—were resting on her face with faint amusement, as if she was making a fool of herself. ========== Finding My Prince Charming (J. S. Cooper) - Tu subrayado en la página 8 | posición 112-115 | Añadido el viernes, 24 de abril de 2015 17:41:34 Long, light brown hair, light brown eyes, slender-ish body—definitely not skinny. I’d never be skinny; I enjoyed sweet goods too much. My skirt and top looked plain and boring. Though, ultimately, I was happy with my reflection. My makeup had held up well. My eyes looked big and bright, thanks to the mascara and eyeliner, and my red lipstick was killer. I looked pretty, if not gorgeous. And I was fine with that. I wasn’t really one who liked to be the center of attention. Not normally. ========== Finding My Prince Charming (J. S. Cooper) - Tu subrayado en la página 14 | posición 213-213 | Añadido el viernes, 24 de abril de 2015 17:54:22

In person she was very attractive; her figure was rather tall and slender, her step light and firm, and her whole appearance expressive of health and animation. In complexion she was a clear brunette with a rich colour; she had full round cheeks, with mouth and nose small and well formed, bright hazel eyes, and brown hair forming natural curls close round her face. If not so regularly handsome as her sister, yet her countenance had a peculiar charm of its own to the eyes of most beholders.

She was fascinated by Max Dane. And not simply because he was handsome, though that detail had not escaped her notice. He seemed such a contradiction to her, at once both playful and dangerous. His mischievous charm delighted her. His deep-set, hazel eyes held the unmistakable light of humor, and the loose curl in his tousled hair of rich brown lent him an endearingly boyish look. Though she imagined he'd not be pleased to hear it, there was something about the man that struck her as being just a little bit adorable.

her hazel eyes haunted me. No, that wasn’t right. Calling her eyes hazel was like simplifying the vastness of the Universe by calling it space. She had entire galaxies of color in her irises—full spectrums of green and gold and brown—different hues sparking to life depending on her mood. And her moods, dear God did she try to keep control of her fiery nature with a stranglehold. She was utterly fascinating.

Hey, isn’t that Daisy Haites—” Bridge nods her chin towards the door. Daisy Haites. Haites, as in, Julian. Yes, that Julian. The gang lord who somehow still manages to appear in GQ and gets write-ups in VICE. Jonah’s other closest friend, I’d say. Daisy’s his sister. She’s a few years younger than me, completely beautiful, sort of terrifying: dark brown hair, bright hazel eyes and skin a little more tan than your standard-issue white girl.

A lot of melanin at the front results in brown eyes. No melanin in front, blue eyes. Some melanin and the eyes can appear green, hazel, and every shade in between, depending on the amount and distribution.

of all is Felix Rivera … a brown-haired guy with a face so sharply cut and intense sanpaku hazel eyes so deeply sunken in that it does honor to his society’s name. Not a pretty boy, but a chilling boy.

Your eyes, Their glamorous radiance, Their eternal, heavenly warmth, Their delicate and intricate beauty, The desire to see that twinkle, That gorgeous hazel glow, Overwhelms me, Hazel, the most beautiful Shade of green, Like the rippling of chestnut browns And greens on trembling trees, Like splashes of sunlight, painting The woods a patchwork of Ambers and throbbing reds, Of golds and silvers, Of light and shade On a callous and dreary morning, Like the feeling of grasping a Warm cup of coffee, Holding it softly between your hands Watching, in a daze, as it Dances elegantly in a Blend of acorns and pinecones, Your eyes, they seem, are Always distracted, Always thinking, Always swirling with hidden embers And falling leaves, They hold so many secrets That I wish I could read, Mesmerising, perplexing, surreal, How I longed to be drowned in Those dizzying pools of colours And never be found again, I adore your hazel eyes, How they utterly charm me, Like the richly brilliant stars, They truly are a masterpiece