Ladies Coupe Quotes

Oh, my dear, love isn't always the coup de foudre--the lightning strike. Sometimes it happens quietly, so quietly you may not even notice.

once you stop worrying what the world will think of you, your life will become that much easier to live.

Somewhere, at some indefinable point, he'd crossed a bridge and the bridge had crumbled behind him. There was no going back. He cared for Lady Phoebe Batten more than anything else in life. More than his family. More than his honor. More than his freedom, should it come to that. Bringing her joy was worth more than any amount of money. He knew--without doubt, without fear--that he would kill for her. That he would die for her. It was almost a relief, this realization. He might fight intellectually against it, using all those well-worn arguments: he was too old, she was too young, they were too far apart in class, but it simply didn't matter. His heart performed a coup d'état over his mind and there was nothing more to be done about it. He loved Phoebe Batter, now and forevermore.

Prof shook head. “Every new member made it that much more likely that you would be betrayed. Wyoming dear lady, revolutions are not won by enlisting the masses. Revolution is a science only a few are competent to practice. It depends on correct organization and, above all, on communications. Then, at the proper moment in history, they strike. Correctly organized and properly timed it is a bloodless coup. Done clumsily or prematurely and the result is civil war, mob violence, purges, terror. I hope you will forgive me if I say that, up to now, it has been done clumsily.

Oh, my dear, love isn't always the coup de foudre--the lightning strike. Sometimes it happens quietly, so quitely you may not even notice.

What is it about marriage that makes it possible for a man and a woman to mesh their lives, dreams and even their thoughts in such a complete fashion?

PANIC FANS THE flames of fear. Panic dulls. Panic stills. Panic tugs at soaring dreams and hurls them down to earth. Panic destroys.

Akhila, if there is one virtue I have, it is immunity to what people think of me. Naturally this makes them dislike me even more. People don’t like to think that their opinion of someone means nothing to that person. And when it is a woman . . . the thought is intolerable. But like I said, I don’t care.

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.” Lady Eloise and Lady Mortand screamed in unison, Sir William choked on his wine, and Sir Francis gaped at her in horror, but Elizabeth wasn’t quite finished. She saved the coup de grace until the meal was over. As soon as everyone arose she insisted they sit back down so a proper prayer of gratitude could be said. Raising her hands heavenward, Elizabeth turned a simple grace into a stinging tirade against the sins of lust and promiscuity that rose to crescendo as she called down the vengeance of doomsday on all transgressors and culminated in a terrifyingly lurid description of the terrors that awaited all who strayed down the path of lechery-terrors that combined dragon lore with mythology, a smattering of religion, and a liberal dash of her own vivid imagination. When it was done Elizabeth dropped her eyes, praying in earnest that tonight would loose her from her predicament. There was no more she could do; she’d played out her hand with all her might; she’d given it her all. It was enough. After supper Sir Francis escorted her to her chamber and, with a poor attempt at regret, announced that he greatly feared they wouldn’t suit. Not at all. Elizabeth and Berta departed at dawn the following morning, an hour before Sir Francis’s servants stirred themselves. Clad in a dressing robe, Sir Francis watched from his bedchamber window as Elizabeth’s coachman helped her into her conveyance. He was about to turn away when a sudden gust of wind caught Elizabeth’s black gown, exposing a long and exceptionally shapely leg to Sir Francis’s riveted gaze. He was still staring at the coach as it circled the drive; through its open window he saw Elizabeth laugh and reach up, unpinning her hair. Clouds of golden tresses whipped about the open window, obscuring her face, and Sir Francis thoughtfully wet his lips.

Slothrop is just settling down next to a girl in a prewar Worth frock and with a face like Tenniel’s Alice, same forehead, nose, hair, when from outside comes this most godawful clanking, snarling, crunching of wood, girls come running terrified out of the eucalyptus trees and into the house and right behind them what comes crashing now into the pallid lights of the garden but—why the Sherman Tank itself! headlights burning like the eyes of King Kong, treads spewing grass and pieces of flagstone as it manoeuvres around and comes to a halt. Its 75 mm cannon swivels until it’s pointing through the French windows right down into the room. “Antoine!” a young lady focusing in on the gigantic muzzle, “for heaven’s sake, not now. . . .” A hatch flies open and Tamara—Slothrop guesses: wasn’t Italo supposed to have the tank?—uh—emerges shrieking to denounce Raoul, Waxwing, Italo, Theophile, and the middleman on the opium deal. “But now,” she screams, “I have you all! One coup de foudre!” The hatch drops—oh, Jesus—there’s the sound of a 3-inch shell being loaded into its breech. Girls start to scream and make for the exits. Dopers are looking around, blinking, smiling, saying yes in a number of ways. Raoul tries to mount his horse and make his escape, but misses the saddle and slides all the way over, falling into a tub of black-market Jell-o, raspberry flavor, with whipped cream on top. “Aw, no . . .” Slothrop having about decided to make a flanking run for the tank when YYYBLAAANNNGGG! the cannon lets loose an enormous roar, flame shooting three feet into the room, shock wave driving eardrums in to middle of brain, blowing everybody against the far walls. A drape has caught fire. Slothrop, tripping over partygoers, can’t hear anything, knows his head hurts, keeps running through the smoke at the tank—leaps on, goes to undog the hatch and is nearly knocked off by Tamara popping up to holler at everybody again. After a struggle which shouldn’t be without its erotic moments, for Tamara is a swell enough looking twist with some fine moves, Slothrop manages to get her in a come-along and drag her down off of the tank. But loud noise and all, look—he doesn’t seem to have an erection. Hmm. This is a datum London never got, because nobody was looking. Turns out the projectile, a dud, has only torn holes in several walls, and demolished a large allegorical painting of Virtue and Vice in an unnatural act. Virtue had one of those dim faraway smiles. Vice was scratching his shaggy head, a little bewildered. The burning drape’s been put out with champagne. Raoul is in tears, thankful for his life, wringing Slothrop’s hands and kissing his cheeks, leaving trails of Jell-o wherever he touches. Tamara is escorted away by Raoul’s bodyguards. Slothrop has just disengaged himself and is wiping the Jell-o off of his suit when there is a heavy touch on his shoulder. “You were right. You are the man.” “That’s nothing.” Errol Flynn frisks his mustache. “I saved a dame from an octopus not so long ago, how about that?” “With one difference,” sez Blodgett Waxwing. “This really happened tonight. But that octopus didn’t.

If by some miracle Buster Freitag could live a long enough life, say two hundred years, there might be time enough for him to lose all his appendages and extremities. Seven more fingers, nine more toes, hands, feet, arms, legs, his genitals, his nose and, of course, the one ear still attached. Reduced down to only head and torso, he might find gainful employment in some circus sideshow, billed as the Human Bratwurst. At least until the final coup de grace, when he would be decapitated in a jealous rage incident, courtesy of a machete wielded by his jilted lover, The Bearded Lady.

Mieux vaut être la femme à abattre que celle à violer. Après quoi, d’un coup de pied que l’habitude avait rendu expert, elle claqua les portes à double battant et pénétra à l’intérieur du saloon, colts bien hauts.

During the early hours of April 12, 1980, which for all practical purposes looked no different than any other hot and humid morning in Monrovia. Select members of Liberia’s National Defense Force awoke early and quietly made their way to the small garden in the back of the Presidential Palace on Ashmond Street. Within minutes President Tolbert and twenty-six of his staff were murdered by the rebels called the “People's Redemption Council,” There are differing stories as to the time and manner of the President’s death; however it is believed that he was disemboweled by Samuel Doe, a member of the Krahn tribe, while asleep in the Executive Mansion. Another report stated that Tolbert was shot and stabbed by an American CIA operative. The First Lady, Tolbert's wife Victoria, wrote in her autobiography that she saw a masked man with a white hand, stabbing her late husband. Because of this evidence it was speculated by many that “white" mercenaries working for the CIA had been behind Doe’s actions. However, Boima Fahnbulleh, a minisiter of Doe’s cabinet, later testified that “the Americans did not support the coup d'état led by Mr. Doe.

This is the world. Half of it is lit by the sun and the other half remains in darkness. It is the same with life. There is good and bad and it’s our duty to remain in the light, be good.

arise, awake and stop not till the goal is reached.

When you get to a certain age, nothing matters. You only want to cling to your serenity and leave the dreaming and storming for those with steaming blood in their veins. Emotions are for the young; the elderly have no use for them.

I was so drunk on my feelings for him that all I wanted to do was be with him. Please him. Show him in a thousand ways how much I loved him. Everything else was unimportant.

Love beckons with a rare bouquet. Love demands you drink of it. And then love burns the tongue, the senses. Love blinds. Love maddens. Love separates reason from thought. Love kills. Love is methyl alcohol pretending to be ethyl alcohol.

So if she has a Golden Ram contract, they’re definitely riding that horse to a coup,” Tristan summed up. “Rams are bovids, Tristan,” Maryam sneered at him. “It’s not even the same family.” “No one would ride a ram to a coup, Maryam, think of the stairs,” he scorned right back. “I am definitely imagining you going down a set,” she said. He narrowed his eyes. “Funny you would mention bovids, since you’re being a bit of a co-” “Tristan,” Angharad cut in, outraged. “She is a lady.” “Well,” he defended, “I wasn’t calling her a bull.