Iron Lad Quotes

Yer a good lad, Atticus, mowin’ me lawn and killin’ what Brits come around.

The wreath of cigarette smoke which curls about the head of the growing lad holds his brain in an iron grip which prevents it from growing and his mind from developing.

She swallowed, watching as the servants and Harry and Bert trooped out of the room. Lad, apparently not the brightest dog in the world, sat down next to Mickey O’Connor and leaned against his leg. Mr. O’Connor looked at the dog, looked at the damp spot growing on his breeches where the dog was leaning, and sighed. “I find me life is not as quiet as it used to be afore ye came to me palace, Mrs. Hollingbrook.” Silence lifted her chin. “You’re a pirate, Mr. O’Connor. I cannot believe your life was ever very quiet.” He gave her an ironic look. “Aye, amazin’, isn’t it? Yet since yer arrival me servants no longer obey me and I return home to find me kitchen flooded.” He crossed to a cupboard and took down a china teapot, a tin of tea, and a teacup. “And me dog smells like a whorehouse.” Silence glanced guiltily at Lad. “The only soap we could find was rose scented.

A scratch at the door interrupted us. Colin dropped and rolled under the bed again. One of the maids poked her head in. "Miss?" I tried not to look as if I was hiding a handsome young lad under the mattress. "Yes?" "Lord Jasper sent me up to see if you need help getting ready for a ball." She smiled proudly. "I have a fair hand with a curling iron." "Oh.Thank you." I needed to get Colin out before I ended up naked in the middle of my bedroom. "I,um, could I get some hot water? To wash my face?" "Certainly,miss. I'll have the footmen bring up the bathtub, if you like, before all the fine ladies start calling for their own baths." "That would be great, thanks." I'd never actually been in a full reclining tub before. We had a battered hip bath in the kitchen. The maid curtsied and closed the door behind her. I let out a breath. Colin crawled back out. "They need to sweep under there," he said, sneezing.

That was it. Owen grabbed his arm, yanked it toward him, and head-butted the punk. He went down with a yelp and Owen stood up, kicking his chair away behind him. "Respect your elders, lad!" The inn got quiet the way things will when shit gets real.

Lads, I forgot to tell you. Naya don’t like good music because she’s a feminist.’ ‘What’s a feminist?’ Tyse asks. ‘It’s like a chick who blames all of her mental problems on dudes,’ Jimmy explains. ‘But not even on specific dudes, just, like, the idea of dudes. It’s fucked up. And it’s ironic cos feminists usually look like dudes themselves.’ ‘But Naya doesn’t look like a dude.’ ‘Aww, thanks Tyse,’ Naya says. ‘James has given you a horribly inaccurate definition of a feminist, but he has ably demonstrated why we exist. Unfortunately, he’s not the only entitled male with no respect for women.

Flecks of light danced over her cheeks, scattered by the nearby perforated iron firepots at the stall. It made her appear to sparkle like a creature out of Scottish lore. Beautiful women were often dangerous in those stories: disguised as a water spirit or a witch, to ensnare a hapless male and lead him to his fate. No escape, no mercy. As a young boy, Keir had always wondered why the men hadn't tried to resist. "Ah, weel," his father had explained, "they're enchanters of men, bonnie women are, and when they beckon, we can't help but follow." "I wouldn't!" Keir had said indignantly. "I'd stay home and take care of Mither." There had come a chuckle from the stove, where his mother had been frying potatoes. "A good laddie, y'are," she'd called out. His father had grinned and stretched out before the hearth, lacing his fingers together over his middle. "Someday, lad, you'll ken exactly why a man falls to temptation, even knowing the better of it." And, as in most things, Keir thought ruefully, his father had been right.

A four-syllable name is impractical in battle, lad, and in most poetry too, if ye care about what the bards say. I’ll give ye only two syllables until ye actually save me bones from the Fae. You can pick. Cory, Ian, Andy, Gobshite, I don’t care. What’ll it be?” “Coriander, sir.” He shoots a pleading glance at Brighid, but she looks amused, and I laugh at him. “How about Fuckstick? Aye, that’ll do.” He doesn’t have a ward against me calling him the wrong name. I know it makes me a fecking arsehole, but he’s a far sight more smug than I can stand.

Lads, I forgot to tell you. Naya don’t like good music because she’s a feminist.’ ‘What’s a feminist?’ Tyse asks. ‘It’s like a chick who blames all of her mental problems on dudes,’ Jimmy explains. ‘But not even on specific dudes, just, like, the idea of dudes. It’s fucked up. And it’s ironic, cos feminists usually look like dudes themselves.’ ‘But Naya doesn’t look like a dude.’ ‘Aww, thanks Tyse,’ Naya says. ‘James has given you a horribly inaccurate definition of a feminist, but he has ably demonstrated why we exist. Unfortunately, he’s not the only entitled male with no respect for women.

A man’s supposed to shit himself after he dies, son, not before. Try to remember that, lad, so that when your time comes, you won’t make a right girly mess of it. Now fuck off and go play in the bog.” Like

He quite certainly shouldn't care: and still he feels a hot sick bubbling in his gut, as if he'd drunk turned milk, or been on a drunken spree. Or been spurned in love, since damn fools seem to take that uncommonly serious, and stick knives in their guts over it all the time, in poems and plays. Romeo and Juliet, being one example, that he's read half a dozen times but never thought to see played out on the stage. Except that Ree took it into his head not a month ago, to take him to the theatre at Stratford to see it. The play's practically seditious when you think about it: Shakespeare's tale of forbidden love between a free-born human lad, and the high-born wolf-girl from the family that had owned then freed his father. At least old Will didn't go so far as to make the boy a slave, else he'd probably have found himself clapped in irons for thanks for his labour. Though of course as a wolf himself, for all his relatively low-status till he won fame from his quill, he'd less to fear than a human would have had. And even a wolf audience can sigh and dab their eyes over a tragic romance, between the two classes of men. As long as the powerless class gets no ideas of acting on that offensive gush of sentimentality.

Such a pretty lad,” she said. “I remember your brother very well. Good sport in that one.

airship smash,” replied the lad, somewhat proudly. “It’s an oxide of nickel battery, with steel and oxide of iron negative electrodes.” “What solution do you use, Tom?” asked Mr. Swift. “I didn’t get that far in questioning you before the crash came,” he added. “Well I have, in the experimental battery, a solution of potassium hydrate,” replied the lad, “but I think I’m going to change it, and add some lithium hydrate to it. I think that will make it stronger.” “Bless my watch chain!” exclaimed Mr. Damon.

This is how the lads can do it. This is how they march burning and pay no heed to cries for mercy and pity. They are no longer flesh and blood. They are weapons, and weapons are made of iron and steel.

Mother!" yelled a lad's voice, turning all their heads toward her Castle's iron gate in the wall that rose above the river Foyle. ,"Mother!" He halted, catching his breath. "They are all dead!

A man’s supposed to shit himself after he dies, son, not before. Try to remember that, lad, so that when your time comes, you won’t make a right girly mess of it. Now fuck off and go play in the bog.

The Parable of the Old Man and the Young" "So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, And took the fire with him, and a knife. And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burnt-offering? Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps, and builded parapets and trenches there, And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son. When lo! an angel called him out of heaven, Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, Neither do anything to him. Behold, A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns; Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him. But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one.