Mr Underwood Quotes

You're Dionysus," I said. "The god of wine." Mr. D rolled his eyes. "What do they say these days, Grover? Do the children say 'Well duh!'?" Y-yes, Mr. D." Then, well, duh! Percy Jackson. Did you think I was Aphrodite, perhaps?" You're a god." Yes, child." A god. You.

Then Mr. Underwood's meaning became clear: Atticus had used every tool available to free men to save Tom Robinson, but in the secret courts of men's hearts Atticus had no case.

Sir, I...I can't fail in my duties again." Grover's voice was choked with emotion. "You know what that would mean." "You haven't failed, Grover," Mr. Brunner said kindly.

How could this be so, I wondered, as I read Mr. Underwood's editorial. Senseless killing--Tom had been given due process of law to the day of his death; he had been tried openly and convicted by twelve good men and true; my father had fought for him all the way. Then Mr. Underwood's meaning became clear: Atticus had used every tool available to free men to save Tom Robinson, but in the secret courts of men's hearts Atticus had no case. Tom was a dead man the minute Mayella Ewell opened her mouth and screamed.

He's been given the boot!' Lofton insisted, directing his anger now at Mister Walton. 'And I think it wise not to interfere!' 'I don't like to benefit from another's misfortune,' said Mister Walton with a straight face, and never losing his peaceful demeanor. ' But the hotel's loss, in this case, is my gain, I fear.' 'Mr. Hubbard will be gravely offended!' said Lofton darkly. 'I can't imagine it,' quipped the bespectacled fellow. 'Only small people are easily offended.' Lofton, who until now had done his best to appear offended, found himself at a loss for a response.

Colonel Fitzwilliam rubbed his hands together in an evil manner that made Elizabeth rather concerned for Mr. Wickham’s wellbeing.

Mr. Underwood didn’t talk about miscarriages of justice, he was writing so children could understand. Mr. Underwood simply figured it was a sin to kill cripples, be they standing, sitting, or escaping. He likened Tom’s death to the senseless slaughter of songbirds by hunters and children, and Maycomb thought he was trying to write an editorial poetical enough to be reprinted in The Montgomery Advertiser. How could this be so, I wondered, as I read Mr. Underwood’s editorial. Senseless killing—Tom had been given due process of law to the day of his death; he had been tried openly and convicted by twelve good men and true; my father had fought for him all the way. Then Mr. Underwood’s meaning became clear: Atticus had used every tool available to free men to save Tom Robinson, but in the secret courts of men’s hearts Atticus had no case. Tom was a dead man the minute Mayella Ewell opened her mouth and screamed.

Papa studied her face, then he nodded. “Still in love with Mr. Collins, eh?

My Lizzy. What a wonderful girl.” Mr. Bennet chortled. “She really refused you?

she still had a foolish hope left in her heart that Mr. Darcy might see her, and… and marry her.

she still had a foolish hope left in her heart that Mr. Darcy might see her, and… and marry her. She was slightly in love.

Mr. Darcy, as we are friends, I beg you to never speak upon this subject again.” Elizabeth’s voice was cold and angry.

Mr. Darcy." Charlotte laughed and flapped her fan in front of her face. “He is a shameless flirt, but beneath that he is a clever man. That smile…it is quite the most charming I have ever seen…those dimples, and he quoted very charming poetry.

Mr. Bennet? Well of course he is at home. Never bothers to go out most days. In his book room, reading Heaven knows what. I dare say it would be a blessing to him to be interrupted if you have any business with him.

There you are, Mr. Collins! There you are. Always prompt; always obsequious. That is what I like in a clergyman.

Mr. Bingley. If Mr. Bingley had behaved at all like a man. Like any man worth the salt in his blood would and should, he’d not have left a woman he claimed to love on Mr. Darcy’s recommendation.

Mr. Underwood?

I didn't drink coffee but kept an old Mr. Coffee around because the Yankee Clipper, Joe DiMaggio, had endorsed them.

Jolyon played his part, passing from group to group, accepting their condolences. It was him the guests had come to see – few of them knew her. Would they really notice if she slipped away? Perhaps she should go and find her old companion, the starved cow. At least that miserable creature had shown some interest in her. She stood for a moment, gazing abstractedly through the net squares of her veil. Birds she did not even have a name for called in the trees beyond. Fat, inquisitive ones that looked like London pigeons except they were beige. Bold, black scavengers. Rooks? Jackdaws? Ravens? She had never really known the difference. One she did recognise – a magpie – rattled at her from the lychgate. The cobalt stripe on his tail pointed to the poorest of the gravestones: lopsided, devoured by lichen and thistle. ‘You are wondering about the gravestones.’ The voice made her start. She swivelled round to see Mr Underwood, standing unobtrusively by her side. His hands were tucked under his surplice; either he was cold or he was hiding the holes in his sleeves.

Mr. Bennet had once said of his room that books were the proper wallpaper of a civilized man.