Jewellery Lover Quotes

To make themselves feel better, my patrons would make presents of money or jewellery, but I found a much more valuable form of payment.” Secrets, I think. That’s what Finnick told me his lovers paid him in, only I thought the whole arrangement was by his choice. “Secrets,” he says, echoing my thoughts. “And this is where you’re going to want to stay tuned, President Snow, because so very many of them were about you. But let’s begin with some of the others.

Any hawk looking down on the orchard's cloistered square, hoping for the titbit of a beetle or a mouse, would see a patterned canopy of trees, line on line, the orchard's melancholy solitude, the jewellery of leaves. It would see the backs of horses, the russet, apple-dotted grass, the saltire of two crossing paths worn smooth by centuries of feet, and two grey heads, swirling in a lover's dance, like blown seed husks caught up in an impish and exacting wind and with no telling when or where they'll come to ground again.

There are people in here, tourists, though of a superior kind. They pass through the rooms quietly, in groups. They are mostly of late middle-age, and well turned-out: there are no giant khaki shorts and tennis socks here, no baseball caps or long lenses. These people have expensive jewellery and leather handbags and polished shoes. They stand in front of one painting after another while their guide lectures them in dispassionate global English. They like to be lectured, it is clear. Their bright eyes pay attention; their lipsticked mouths do not move. They have a look of health about them, as though they were receiving some rigorous but beneficent cure. They are art lovers: it is culture that is purifying their blood and keeping their spines so straight.