Hmmm Reply Quotes

Is this seat taken?" a warm sexy drawl asked and I lifted my gaze and smiled up at Dank. "Yes. I'm saving it for my smoking hot boyfriend," I replied teasingly. Dank slid in beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. "Hmmm, well he should have gotten here sooner. You snooze, you lose.

Millie,” he called. I kept my gaze to the yard and replied with a, “Hmmm?” “Safe with me.” My attention cut back to him. “Never won’t be, babe,” he went on softly. “Not ever. Hear?

Hembry," he said, not lifting his gaze from Juliana's. "We will retire to the music room. Lady Juliana wishes to play with me." She laughed at his outrageous statement as the butler disappeared to light the lamps in the music room. "Play for you, you rouge. Music. Nothing else." "Hmmm...," he enigmatically replied. Sinclair allowed her to put her own interpretation on his intentions as they entered the house.

How it can be?" - They asked me - "There are so many years of the work, and there is no any publication? Hmm ... " When they say "Hmmm ...", it is impossible to argue. The arguing makes sense only if ones say to you: "You have a broken link, here, on the eighth page. Replying on "Hmmm ..." You can say just: "Sorry, it happened

Hmmm!” directed to Fai. “Is there such thing as an answer, Fai?” he asked, though by his tone, Wolfdon could tell he knew the answer to that, if it were possible. “I would not know, Godric,” Fai replied, a bit more solemn than Godric and Cheng. “For knowing thus, the question would be answered, but without, there is neither subjectivity nor objectivity, just truth from above lisped through our uncouth tongues. Truth, there is. Answers, I cannot say.

The light on the bedside table next to Sarah brightens. “I’m awake now. I’m going to read for a bit, if it doesn’t bother you.” “Wuthering Heights?” I yawn. “Yes. Sleep well, Henry.” And something about the way she says my name this time—the sweetness of her voice—makes me smile. Until . . . “Hmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmmmm, hmm, hmm . . .” And I’m once again staring at the ceiling. “What is that sound?” “What? Oh, that’s me—sorry—I hum when I read.” The bed shakes as she shrugs. “Habit.” “Well for Christ’s sake, don’t.” I’m being an arse. When she doesn’t reply for a few seconds, I start to worry I’ve upset her. It’s not Sarah’s fault I’m tired—and horny. So horny. She doesn’t deserve to have her head ripped off. But before I can apologize, she says, “And here I thought you were the type who’d enjoy a good hummer.” And for a moment I’m stunned. And then I laugh, turning on my side, facing her. “Was that a joke, Sarah Titty-teet-butt-um?” “It was supposed to be, yes.” “And it was a dirty joke. I’m impressed. I’ll have to completely reevaluate my impression of you.” She covers her lovely mouth with her hands. “They slip out from time to time

How it can be?" - Asked me - "so many years of work, and no one publication? Hmm ... " When they say "Hmmm ...", argue impossible. Arguing makes sense only if ones say to you: "You have a broken link, here, on the eighth page. Reply on "Hmmm ..." You can say just: "Sorry, it happened

Hmmm?” was her distracted reply. She had her face tipped up to the sun and was basking in its warmth. And for one extremely disconcerting moment, Anthony felt a sharp stab of . . . something. Something? He gave his head a little shake. It couldn’t possibly be desire. Not for this woman.

I'm Gennie." She responded instinctively to the smile Shelby shot her before she untangled herself from her brother. "I'm glad to meet you." "Pushing seventy,hmmm?" Shelby said cryptically to Grant before she clasped Gennie's hand. "We'll have to get to know each other so you can tell me how you tolerate this jerk's company for more than give minutes at a time. Alan's in the throne room with the MacGregor," she continued before Grant could retort. "Has Grant given you a rundown on the inmates?" "An abbreviated version," Gennie replied, instantly charmed. "Typical." She hooked her arm through Gennie's. "Well, sometimes it's best to jump in feetfirst. The most important thing to remember is not to let Daniel intimidate you. What extraction are you?" "French mostly.Why?" "It'll come up." "How was your honeymoon?" Grant demanded, wanting to veer away from the subject that would,indeed, come up. Shelby beamed at him. "I'll let you know when it's over. How's your cliff?" "Still standing.

When I arrived, I immediately saw the mother of an ex-boyfriend, the kind of ex-boyfriend that would make you want to look as good as possible if you ran into his mother at a shower when you were several months pregnant. She saw me, smiled politely, and made her way across the room to visit with me. We hugged, exchanged pleasantries, and caught up on what we’d both been doing. As we talked, I fantasized about her reporting to her son, my ex, the next day. Oh, you should have seen Ree. She was positively glowing! You should have seen how wonderful she looked! Don’t you wish you had married her? Deep into our small talk, I made mention of how long it had been since she and I had seen each other. “Well…I did see you recently,” she replied. “But I don’t think you saw me.” I couldn’t imagine. “Oh really?” I asked. “Where?” I hardly ever came to my hometown. “Well,” she continued. “I saw you pulling out of McDonald’s on Highway Seventy-five one morning a few weeks ago. I waved to you…but you didn’t see me.” My insides suddenly shriveled, imagining myself violently shoving breakfast burritos into my mouth. “McDonald’s? Really?” I said, trying my best to play dumb. “Yes,” my ex’s mother replied, smiling. “You looked a little…hungry!” “Hmmm,” I said. “I don’t think that was me.” I skulked away to the bathroom, vowing to eat granola for the rest of my pregnancy.

Mowbray! Been a while since you bothered with the season. What brings you to town?” Lord Adrian Montfort, Earl of Mowbray, shifted his gaze from the couples whirling past on the dance floor and to the man who approached: the tall, fair, eminently good-looking Reginald Greville. He and Greville, his cousin, had once been the best of friends. However, time and distance had weakened the bond—with a little help from the war with France, Adrian thought bitterly. Ignoring Reginald’s question, he offered a somewhat rusty smile in greeting, then turned his gaze back to the men and women swinging elegantly about the dance floor. He replied instead, “Enjoying the season, Greville?” “Certainly, certainly. Fresh blood. Fresh faces.” “Fresh victims,” Mowbray said dryly, and Reginald laughed. “That too.” Reginald was well-known for his success in seducing young innocents. Only his title and money kept him from being forced out of town. Shaking his head, Adrian gave that rusty smile again. “I wonder you never tire of the chase, Reg. They all look sadly similar to me. I would swear these were the very same young women who were entering their first season the last time I attended…and the time before that, and the time before that.” His cousin smiled easily, but shook his head. “It has been ten years since you bothered to come to town, Adrian. Those women are all married and bearing fruit, or well on their way to spinsterhood.” “Different faces, same ladies,” Adrian said with a shrug. “Such cynicism!” Reg chided. “You sound old, old man.” “Older,” Adrian corrected. “Older and wiser.” “No. Just old,” Reg insisted with a laugh, his own gaze turning to the mass of people moving before them. “Besides, there are a couple of real lovelies this year. That blonde, for instance, or that brunette with Chalmsly.” “Hmmm.” Adrian looked the two women over. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but my guess is that the brunette—lovely as she is—doesn’t have a thought in her head. Rather like that Lady Penelope you seduced when last I was here.” Reg’s eyes widened in surprise at the observation. “And the blonde…” Adrian continued, his gaze raking the woman in question and taking in her calculating look. “Born of parents in trade, lots of money, and looking for a title to go with it. Rather like Lily Ainsley. Another of your conquests.” “Dead-on,” Reginald admitted, looking a bit incredulous. His gaze moved between the two women and then he gave a harsh laugh. “Now you have quite ruined it for me. I was considering favoring one or both of them with my attentions. But now you have made them quite boring.” -Reg & Adrian

As she explained to her students, patients often awoke from very bad illnesses or cardiac arrests, talking about how they had been floating over their bodies. “Mm-hmmm,” Norma would reply, sometimes thinking, Yeah, yeah, I know, you were on the ceiling. Such stories were recounted so frequently that they hardly jolted medical personnel. Norma at the time had mostly chalked it up to some kind of drug reaction or brain malfunction, something like that. “No, really,” said a woman who’d recently come out of a coma. “I can prove it.” The woman had been in a car accident and been pronounced dead on arrival when she was brought into the emergency room. Medical students and interns had begun working on her and managed to get her heartbeat going, but then she had coded again. They’d kept on trying, jump-starting her heart again, this time stabilizing it. She’d remained in a coma for months, unresponsive. Then one day she awoke, talking about the brilliant light and how she remembered floating over her body. Norma thought she could have been dreaming about all kinds of things in those months when she was unconscious. But the woman told them she had obsessive-compulsive disorder and had a habit of memorizing numbers. While she was floating above her body, she had read the serial number on top of the respirator machine. And she remembered it. Norma looked at the machine. It was big and clunky, and this one stood about seven feet high. There was no way to see on top of the machine without a stepladder. “Okay, what’s the number?” Another nurse took out a piece of paper to jot it down. The woman rattled off twelve digits. A few days later, the nurses called maintenance to take the ventilator machine out of the room. The woman had recovered so well, she no longer needed it. When the worker arrived, the nurses asked if he wouldn’t mind climbing to the top to see if there was a serial number up there. He gave them a puzzled look and grabbed his ladder. When he made it up there, he told them that indeed there was a serial number. The nurses looked at each other. Could he read it to them? Norma watched him brush off a layer of dust to get a better look. He read the number. It was twelve digits long: the exact number that the woman had recited. The professor would later come to find out that her patient’s story was not unique. One of Norma’s colleagues at the University of Virginia Medical Center at the time, Dr. Raymond Moody, had published a book in 1975 called Life After Life, for which he had conducted the first large-scale study of people who had been declared clinically dead and been revived, interviewing 150 people from across the country. Some had been gone for as long as twenty minutes with no brain waves or pulse. In her lectures, Norma sometimes shared pieces of his research with her own students. Since Moody had begun looking into the near-death experiences, researchers from around the world had collected data on thousands and thousands of people who had gone through them—children, the blind, and people of all belief systems and cultures—publishing the findings in medical and research journals and books. Still, no one has been able to definitively account for the common experience all of Moody’s interviewees described. The inevitable question always followed: Is there life after death? Everyone had to answer that question based on his or her own beliefs, the professor said. For some of her students, that absence of scientific evidence of an afterlife did little to change their feelings about their faith. For others,

There you are, Franklin,” he said. “Your friends are waiting. We can’t start the party without you.” “I don’t belong at the party,” replied Franklin. “I don’t have any valentines to give.” “I know,” said Mr. Owl. “Your mother told me what happened. And I told the class.” Franklin moaned. “I guess no one’s going to give me a valentine now.” “Hmmm,” said Mr. Owl. “If Bear lost his valentines, would you decide not to give him a card?” “I’d never do that!” exclaimed Franklin. “Bear is my friend.” “Maybe Bear feels the same way about you,” replied Mr. Owl.

Nathaniel rubbed his jaw and peered down at her from the corner of his eye. “You haven’t forgiven me yet. For what I said to you that night.”  Startled by the sudden change in subject, Kitty almost stuttered her reply but answered openly. “In truth I have not.” He shook his head with a frown. “’Tis a shame, considering I am such a loving and forgivable sort of person.” The way the lines lengthened around his bright eyes and the slight tilt to his mouth nearly pulled a rich laugh from Kitty’s throat, but she kept still. He bit the inside of his cheek then flung her a sideways look. “I must make amends.” Peeking at him from the corner of her eye, she allowed a wisp of a smile to raise one side of her mouth. “I fear you cannot.” “Hmmm.” He shook his head and frowned. “That will not do. I shall find a way. Believe me.”  A gentle breeze danced around them and Kitty glanced up at him as they walked side by side. Bits of afternoon stubble dusted his jaw. Strands of rich brown hair strayed from his queue and brushed his cheek. Quickly she stared back at the street. Staying angry with Nathaniel was as difficult as keeping ice from melting in August. Not only had he a handsome face and fine physique, he had an alluring charm and a gentle strength that added depth to his character and a pull to his magnetism that Kitty was helpless to resist.

Don’t move,” he said, his eyes flashing green. She didn’t, but not because she had a sudden mesmerizing compulsion to stand still. If the vampire thought mind-control tricks worked on her, she might stand a better chance of escaping. The vampire freed her wrist, making a band of hope arc through Kira. He was buying it! Now just walk away and leave me alone while you rifle through my purse . . . He didn’t, but Kira kept her face from showing her disappointment as he pulled out her gun and checked the clip. “You really do have silver bullets in this,” the vampire said musingly. “And you were trying to steal Jenny away. Who put you up to this?” “No one,” Kira replied, attempting to fix a glazed expression on her face even though her heart hammered with fear. Those ghouls had gutted her in a second. This vampire could do the same. Any moment, she might be looking down at a horrible lethal wound before she’d even realized the vampire moved. The vampire frowned, grasping her chin in a grip hard enough to make her jaw creak. “I said, who put you up to this? Only another vampire would know to send you here packing silver bullets. Whose pet are you, hmmm? Give me a name.” “No vampire sent me. I’m a private investigator. Jennifer’s parents hired my firm,” Kira replied in as much of a monotone as she could manage.

Talking Dog One day, while driving in the country, a man noticed a sign that said “Talking Dog for Sale.”  The sign pointed to a farm house off the road just a bit.  The man’s interest was piqued so he pulled off the road and headed up to the farm house. When he got there and inquired about the talking dog, the farmer told him the talking dog was around the back of the farm house.  The farmer said the man was welcome to go in back and talk with the dog. The man was in a serious state of disbelief, because he knew dogs couldn’t talk.  Still he was very curious so he headed around to the backyard. In the backyard the man noticed a poodle that quickly came up to him.  The man thought to himself, “Hmmm poodles are supposed to be smart dogs.” “Can you really talk?” the man asked the poodle. “I sure can,” replied back the poodle. “Wow,” exclaimed the man.  Wanting to hear more he asked, “So what’s your story?” “I discovered I could talk when I was very young,” said the poodle.  “I knew I had a real gift so I thought I should do something about it.  I joined the CIA and became one of their very best spies.  I was sent on many secret missions.  I traveled all around the world and was involved in many interesting and intriguing cases. I even helped save the life of the President on two occasions. After eight years I got tired of all the jetting around and decided to retire.  I was given several awards for all my achievements and a gala dinner, attended by many important people, was held in my honor.  I was given a full government pension and brought to this farm to enjoy the rest of my life.” After hearing all this, the man was astounded.  He quickly went back to the farmer and said, “I want that dog!  I will buy it at any price.  How much do you want for that dog?” “Ten dollars,” was the farmer’s reply. “Ten dollars?” the man said in disbelief.  “That dog is amazing, why on earth would you sell it for so little?” “Because he’s a big liar; he didn’t do any of those things!

Hallie knew she should be good, but something inside her wanted to mess with him. Or play with this situation. Whatever the reason, she started moving her thumb, letting it stroke over the heat of his big hand. “Hal,” he murmured, still not looking at her. “Hmmm?” she replied. “I’m great with you doing that,” he said, squeezing her hand a little tighter. “But just know that if you’re still doing it when we get past the guy scanning boarding passes, I’m kissing you.

The file began with the principal muttering what sounded like nonsense. “Stupid hedgehogs!” he yelled. “Stop stealing my flapjacks!” I looked to Zoe, intrigued. “Is this some sort of top secret code?” “No,” Zoe replied. “It’s about the game he’s playing on his phone.” “It’s called Flapjack Frenzy,” Warren explained. “You try to make as many pancakes as possible and these hedgehogs try to steal them. So you have to fight them off by shooting them with maple syrup. . . .” “The rules of the game really aren’t important right now,” Zoe told him. Warren frowned sullenly. On the recording, the principal’s phone rang. He let it ring ten more times while he apparently tried to finish the level of the game, before finally giving in and answering. “This is the principal,” he said curtly. “This had better be important. I’m in the midst of something very serious.” Then he gasped in surprise and asked, “SPYDER? Really? How do you know?” This was followed by a period during which the principal was obviously listening to a lot of information that the person on the other end of the phone line was giving him. For the most part, it seemed he was trying to sound interested, saying things like “Hmmm” and “Fascinating” and “Wow,” although I could also hear the distinct sounds of the game continuing: tinny music punctuated by the occasional squelch of maple syrup and squeal of pixelated hedgehogs. Suddenly, the principal said, “No, I’m not playing a game on my phone! I’m listening to you!” And then the tinny music shut off.

I am Toriel," she offered. "So nice to meet you." He couldn't help but wink at her. "The name's Sans, and, uh, same." "Oh! Wait, then…" she turned her attention to Papyrus and Sans's expression became fond. "This must be your brother, Papyrus! Greetings, Papyrus! It is so nice to finally meet you. Your brother has told me so much about you." "WOWIE…I CAN'T BELIEVE ASGORE'S CLONE KNOWS WHO I AM! THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!" Sans chuckled. Only the Great Papyrus. Toriel spoke up again. "Hey, Papyrus…what does a skeleton tile his roof with?" Sans had to swallow a laugh as Papyrus's sockets narrowed. "HMMM…" the lankier skeleton voiced as he thought. "SNOW-PROOF ROOF TILES?" "No, silly!" Toriel quickly replied. "A skeleton tiles his room with…shin-gles!" Sans shared a grin with Toriel as Papyrus nearly lost his shit. "I CHANGED MY MIND! THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE!