Rem Beauty Quotes

Hairshirt" I am not the type of dog That could keep you waiting For no good reason Run a carbon-black test on my jaw And you will find it's all been said before I can swing my megaphone And long arm the rest It's easier and better To just beat it from the chest Of desire I could walk into this room And the waves of conversation are enough To knock you down in the undertow So alone, so alone in my life Feed me banks of light And hang your hairshirt on the lowest rung It's a beautiful life And I can hang my hairshirt Away up high in the attic of The wrong dog's life chest Or bury it at sea All my life I've searched for this Here I am, here I am In your life It's a beautiful life My life It's a beautiful life Your life Green (1988)

What do you think, Rem’eb the Fist?” the second man calls out from the doorway. He won’t enter, won’t even look in this direction. I’m guessing that he’s not allowed to look at me, which only makes me more nervous. The one standing in front of me blinks. He must be Rem’eb. One hand reaches up to rub his jaw, and his lips part as he stares at me as if he cannot believe what he’s seeing. If he’s startled to see me, he must not have been the one that kidnapped me. The moniker “The Fist” is a little alarming, though. I’m not going to relax my guard just yet. The Fist guy finally answers, clearing his throat before speaking. “She…she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.” Oh. Well. I might be an idiot, because it’s hard not to be somewhat flattered by that awed tone of voice.

The female that steps into the light and gazes at me with wide, khui-blue eyes is nothing like those tales. Her skin is the color of a mushroom cap, soft and strangely plush for all that she has no fur. The mane atop her head is full of coils, springing forth around her round face like a cloud of smoke. She is slim and brown, delicate and yet inviting. I was expecting an ugly creature that it would be easy to drop back onto the surface. “What do you think, Rem’eb the Fist?” calls Cas’zor through the door. Is it not obvious to him? It feels obvious to me. That everyone should realize that this is the moment—and the female—I have waited my entire life for. It does not matter that she is a stranger or most likely an enemy. “She…she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” I tell him, humbled. I raise a hand to my chest, knowing that I must surely be resonating, and I am surprised to find I am not. Not yet, then. It feels inevitable. No matter that my khui is silent right now. I know that it is simply a matter of time.

We actually have a whole cognitive mode dedicated to making sense of complete nonsense. It’s called REM sleep.

Furthermore, she poured tea on a regular basis. Madeline didn't care to, while Eleanor found comfort in the scent, the warmth, the routine. But right now, with all of Mr. Knight's attention focused on her, the task became an ordeal. The pot seemed to weigh too much. The cup rattled in the saucer as she picked it up. She tilted the pot, aimed the spout toward the cup- And in that same, smiling, deceptively pleasant voice, Mr. Knight said, "I like having a duchess wait on me." Both of Eleanor's hands shook. The hot liquid splashed on her fingers. She dropped the cup. As she reached for it, it shattered against the table. A shard jabbed into her palm. She yanked her hand back and closed her fingers. In a rush, he came and knelt beside her. "Are you hurt? Did you burn yourself?" "No, no, I'm fine." She wasn't fine. She was embarrassed. She cultivated the graceful moves of a lady for a reason. She hated making a spectacle of herself- and now her nerves had betrayed her. "Please, Mr. Knight, stand up." For all the notice he took of her, she might not have spoken. Turning her hand to the light, he at once detected the slight cut beneath her little finger, oozing a sullen drop of scarlet blood. "You've cut yourself." "Only a little." She tried to tug her hand back. "I was clumsy. I broke your beautiful cup." "To hell with the cup." He pressed his finger lightly on the cut. She winced. "You're lucky. There's nothing in there." Lifting her hand to his mouth, he sucked the small wound. Shocked, she stared at him. His head bent over her hand, his chiseled features were intent, serious. His mouth was warm, wet, and the suction he used made her feel... odd. More animal than human, pain and intimacy mixing... never, ever had a man's mouth touched her on any part, in any way.

He stretched his face toward her lips. "I'm going to kiss you. We've kissed before, remember? " Pitching his tone to be low and seductive, he asked, "You liked it, didn't you?" Her voice wobbled. "Very much." She was so trusting. So damnably, beautifully honest. "I put my tongue in your mouth, explored and tasted. Like this." He brushed her lips, his mind anticipating the shy blossom of her mouth beneath his. He loved the little catch of breath she gave as he slid his tongue inside, loved the flavor of brandy, loved that she couldn't resist putting her arms around his shoulders and twining her fingers in his hair. The liquor had loosened her inhibitions; she touched his tongue with hers, then when his tongue fell back, she followed, delving into his mouth, touching his teeth, ringing his lips. Her diffident exterior hid a siren of uncommon power and boldness, and he would show her everything her instincts only suspected. Gently, he sucked at her tongue, rasping the end with his own. When she fell back, out of breath, he slid her one glove down her arm. "Can you imagine me doing that to you... down there?" Ever-so-gently, he kissed the soft, pale skin at her elbow. "Can you imagine that?" "Yes," she said faintly.

You didn't even know of my existence a month ago." "But I did. I've known your existence for over eight years, ever since my man of business returned to Boston from England and told me that the duke of Magnus had been blessed with a daughter. A most beautiful daughter." He placed the book back on the shelf, and he didn't need the stool. "My man of business did not exaggerate." Disconcerted, Eleanor said, "Well... thank you." Although he was speaking of Madeline, he was looking at her. She knew, without conceit, that she was attractive. One less-than-honorable Englishman, who'd seen the opportunity to seduce a pretty girl, had told her she was more handsome than her cousin. But when Mr. Knight gazed at her, that tiny flame his touch had ignited spread though her veins. That flame, and the attendant warmth, were bad things. Very bad things.

He did not need to be distracted by a woman. A gorgeous woman, yes, but just a woman. He didn't understand her. That was the problem. She was beautiful but unaware of her beauty. She was rich but not grasping. She was timid, yet she rode fearlessly, and for a scroungy dog she roared like a lion. Because of her, he'd had his best boots nipped by a mutt's sharp teeth. Because of her, he'd ordered all flower arrangements changed from red to yellow roses.

Lady Shapster pointed a long finger at Eleanor. "You don't aspire to marry her." Eleanor wanted to leap at her, to stifle her and that dreadful, smooth, accusatory tone. Mr. Knight's lips drew back from his teeth, and his voice was scarcely audible when he said, "Do not tell me what I aspire to do. You know nothing about me or my aspirations. Now- you want to leave. I'll escort you to the door." "Such a scene," Beau Brummel murmured. "So sad when a noted beauty fades to infamy.

alcohol before bed can also interfere with sleep, since it disrupts the deep sleep and REM sleep that are essential for maximum beauty benefits.