Sophie Turner Quotes

He bowed. “I – I understand you are my cousin. I am glad to meet you.” Henry dropped the ring. “My God, it cannot be.

but it was the cruel amusement of a fickle world that would leave Fitzwilliam Darcy on a fishing boat in Cornwall during all that had occurred in his absence.

By God, I do know you! You, sir, are Fitzwilliam Darcy, and you are the best solution to all of our problems.

Well, I can tell you all of that. My name is Charles Bingley. We were friends.

She threw her arms about him; he held her loosely as she whispered, “Oh my God – oh – oh it cannot be,” and sobbed against his chest.

Ye didn’t do nothin’ wrong, m’lady,” came her creaking voice. “Ye just did what were best for ye chill’rens.

Oh yes, our sons needed a mother who would be a countess.

Elizabeth felt tears welling in her eyes. “It was much, for you to risk your life searching for a child that was not your own.

It was, of course, the memory of Sophie and Nathan's long-ago plunge that set loose this flood [of tears], but it was also a letting go of rage and sorrow for the many others who during these past months had battered at my mind and now demanded my mourning: Sophie and Nathan, yes, but also Jan and Eva -- Eva with her one-eyed mis -- and Eddie Farrell, and Bobby Weed, and my young black savior Artiste, and Maria Hunt, and Nat Turner, and Wanda Muck-Horch von Kretschmann, who were but a few of the beaten and butchered and betrayed and martyred children of the earth. I did not weep for the six million Jews or the two million Poles or the one million Serbs or the five million Russians -- I was unprepared to weep for all humanity -- but I did weep for these others who in one way or another had become dear to me, and my sobs made an unashamed racket across the abandoned beach; then I had no more tears to shed, I lowered myself to the sand...and slept...When I awoke it was nearly morning...I heard children chattering nearby. I stirred...Blessing my resurrection, I realized that the children had covered me with sand, protectively, and that I lay as safe as a mummy beneath this fine, enveloping overcoat.

his disease, whatever it was, resided in shadier corners of his soul—where decisions were reached not through reason but by rationalization, and where a thin membranous growth of selfishness always seemed to prevent his decent motives from becoming happy actions.

The man’s reaction was not what he had hoped for. He gaped at Will, all the friendliness gone from his face and replaced by shock. Will felt a rush of shame; he had not thought his act so rude as to cause this sort of reaction. Then he noticed that all of the colour seemed to be draining from the man’s face.

outrageously at his temples (by then his need to do something had become like a panic, a fierce drive up ward and outward from his self that had begun to cut like flame through the boozy dreamland, the nit-picking, the inertia, the navel-gazing), said loudly and impatiently: “What do you mean there is not a hope in the world?

She found herself face-to-face with a goat. With a rude bleat, the goat snatched a sheet of paper from her grasp and crumpled it between its jaws. Sophia watched in confounded outrage as the goat casually masticated and swallowed her precious parchment. When the animal extended its long, narrow tongue in every indication of lunching on her second sheet, Sophia startled into action. She grabbed her drawing board with both hands and smacked the impertinent animal on the nose. “Easy there, sweetheart.” Mr. Grayson’s deep voice carried from somewhere above. “That’s my investment you’re bludgeoning.” Sophia started at the goat. She paused a half-second to imagine Mr. Grayson’s handsome features a superimposed on that furry, blunt-nosed visage. Then she whacked it over the head again. My, but that felt good. Evidently, the goat did not agree. It grasped the corner of Sophia’s board with its teeth and pulled. Sophia tugged back with all her strength. She lost her footing on the stair and tumbled backward into the cabin. The goat fell with her. Or rather, the goat fell on top of her. Drat. Bleating indignantly, the goat scrambled to its feet, its forelegs and hindlegs on either side of Sophia’s midsection. Sophie struggled to raise herself up on her elbows. Her serge skirt had flipped up, exposing her stockings. The powerful stench of farm animal smothered her like a goat-hide blanket. Two pendulous teats dangled before her eyes, swaying gently with every motion of the ship. “Well, well.” Mr. Grayson’s teasing tone carried down the staircase. The remaining sheet of paper fluttered to a rest near Sophia’s elbow. The goat ingested it with alacrity. “This is a very pretty picture. What a fetching dairymaid you make, Miss Turner.

During one of the CGI panel discussions, I asked Senator Clinton about implementing ACIA recommendations, and her answer assured me that she was aware of the assessment and understood the science. And during various CGI events, I also met fellow Sophie Prize winner Wangari Maathai of Kenya, who sadly has since passed away; environmental scientist Lester R. Brown; media mogul Ted Turner; and actor Brad Pitt. At the closing dinner, guests were even serenaded by the one and only Tony Bennett. Pretty big deal for an Inuk girl from the far reaches of the Arctic.

Because this must have nothing to do with my own happiness – it must all be about you, Darcy.” “It