Veronica Dearly Quotes

Yes," she says, her eyes bright with tears. "My dear child, you've done so well.

My dear girl. I am his family. I am permanent. You are only temporary.

Am I done yet?' I say, and I'm not sure if I actually say it or if I just think it and she hears it. 'yes,' she says, her eyes bright with tears. 'My dear child, you've done so well.

Well, you can’t love everything equally,” she said. “You just can’t—and if you did, then it’s the same as loving nothing at all. So you have to hold just a few things dear, because that’s what love is. Particular. Specific.

Will it ever be perfect?” I wondered. “No,” he told me with a smile. “Nothing in life is. But, my dear mademoiselle, life is not about achievement. It is about the effort. If one takes pleasure in every step, one enjoys the whole journey.

I was merely thinking that it may have been a very grave mistake to introduce you to Lady C. If the pair of you ever put your minds to it, you could probably topple governments together.” I smiled as I pocketed the weapon. “One thing at a time, dear Stoker. One thing at a time.

He gave me a look that was almost pitying, and when he smiled it was the smile of a vengeful god. "My dear Veronica, I am suprised you have not already learned -- everyone has a capacity for cruelty. Not everyone gets the chance to exercise it.

It is lifelong habit of mine to pick up litter because of something my dear father once said. It is a small act of remembrance as well as a token gesture to atone for the chaos left behind by the human race.

Eileen, with her habitual charm, often comments that I am “as tough as old boots.” Every time she says this, I’m tempted to reply, “All the better to kick you with, my dear.

You have to hold just a few things dear, because that’s what love is. Particular. Specific.

You put us on pedestals and wrap us in cotton wool, cluck over us as being too precious and too fragile for any real labor of the mind, yet where is the concern for the Yorkshire woman working herself into an early grave in a coal mine? The factory girl who chokes herself to an untimely death on bad air? The wife so worn by repeated childbearing that she is dead at thirty? No, my dear Stoker, your sex has held the reins of power for too long. And I daresay you will not turn them loose without a fight.

My,don't you have pretty eyes," he says. "It's a shame the rest of you is so plain." My heart pounds. I tug my hand back, but his grip tightens. I smell something acrid and unpleasant on his breath. "You look a little young to be walking around by yourself,dear," he says. I stop tugging, and stand up straighter. I know I look young; I don't need to be reminded. "I'm older than I look," I retort. "I'm sixteen." His lips spread wide, revealing a gray molar with a dark pit in the side. I can't tell if he's smiling or grimacing. "Then isn't today a special day for you? The day before you choose?" "Let go of me," I say. I hear rining in my ears. My voice sounds clear and stern-not what I expected to hear. I feel like it doesn't belong to me. I am ready.I know what to do. I picture myself bringing my elbow back and hitting him. I see the bag of apples flying away from me. I hear my running footsteps. I am prepared to act. But then he releases my wrist, takes the apples,and says, "Choose wisely, little girl.

There are not going to be any intimate activities,” Stoker said. “We are going there to work, not to participate in an orgy.” Tiberius lifted his brows. “My dear boy, if you only ‘participate’ in an orgy, you are doing it incorrectly. One must join such endeavors with enthusiasm or not at all.

My dear child, it is never finished. Our enemies are cunning and careful. and they are legion.

I can only quote Xenocrates, dear lady. ‘I have often regretted my speech, never my silence.

Dear Adrian – or rather, Dear Adrian and Veronica (hello, Bitch, and welcome to this letter),

The truth, dear reader, is that I was as ready for him as any filly ready for the stud. My blood thrummed whenever he came near, the air crackling between us like one of Galvani’s electrical experiments. It was a mercy that we had not been alone in our train compartment on the journey back to London; otherwise, I suspect the urgent swaying of the conveyance would have proven too much for my increasingly limited self-control.

He nodded. “Of course, the male is so dominant and attractive.” “That is not the male,” I corrected. “The male eclectus is green, the color of his surroundings, meant to blend in and go unnoticed. It is the female which boasts the glorious scarlet plumage. You, my dear general, have made the very common mistake of believing, as so many others do, that the male of the species is the default.

Dear David, I’m sorry, but it’s not going to happen the way we planned it. I can’t do it. I know you’re just going to think I’m being a stupid teenager, but this is my life and if I’m going to be here for years, I have to do this my way. I’ll still be able to do my job from outside of Erudite. So tomorrow, at the Choosing Ceremony, Andrew and I are going to choose Abnegation together. I hope you’re not angry. I guess even if you are, I won’t hear about it. —Natalie

I slide to the floor. I feel something warm on my neck, and under my cheek. Red. Blood is a strange color. Dark. From the corner of my eye, I see David slumped over in his chair. And my mother walking out from behind him. She is dressed in the same clothes she wore the last time I saw her, Abnegation gray, stained with her blood, with bare arms to show her tattoo. There are still bullet holes in her shirt; through them I can see her wounded skin, red but no longer bleeding, like she’s frozen in time. Her dull blond hair is tied back in a knot, but a few loose strands frame her face in gold. I know she can’t be alive, but I don’t know if I’m seeing her now because I’m delirious from the blood loss of if the death serum has addled my thoughts or if she is here in some other way. She kneels next to me and touches a cool hand to my cheek. “Hello, Beatrice,” she says, and she smiles. “Am I done yet?” I say, and I’m not sure if I actually say it or if I just think it and she hears it. “Yes,” she says, her eyes bright with tears. “My dear child, you’ve done so well.” “What about the others?” I choke on a sob as the image of Tobias comes into my mind, of how dark and how still his eyes were, how strong and warm his hand was, when we first stood face-to-face. “Tobias, Caleb, my friends?” “They’ll care for each other,” she says. “That’s what people do.” I smile and close my eyes. I feel a thread tugging me again, but this time I know that it isn’t some sinister force dragging me toward death. This time I know it’s my mother’s hand, drawing me into her arms. And I go gladly into her embrace. Can I be forgiven for all I’ve done to get here? I want to be. I can. I believe it.

I run a comb through my hair to smooth it down and then tuck it behind my ears. “Here,” says Cara. She lifts a piece of hair from my face and pins it back with a silver hair clip, the way Erudite girls do. Christina takes out the guns we brought with us and looks at me. “Do you want one?” she says. “Or would you rather carry the stunner?” I stare at the gun in her hand. If I don’t take the stunner, I leave myself completely undefended against people who will gladly shoot me. If I do, I admit to weakness in front of Fernando, Cara, and Marcus. “You know what Will would say?” says Christina. “What?” I say, my voice breaking. “He would tell you to get over it,” she says. “To stop being so irrational and take the stupid gun.” Will had little patience for the irrational. Christina must be right; she knew him better than I did. And she--who lost someone dear to her that day, just as I did--was able to forgive me, an act that must have been nearly impossible. It would have been impossible for me, if the situation were reversed. So why is it so difficult for me to forgive myself? I close my hand around the gun Christina offered me. The metal is warm from where she touched it. I feel the memory of shooting him poking at the back of my mind, and try to stifle it. But it won’t be stifled. I let go of the gun. “The stunner is a perfectly good option,” Cara says as she plucks a hair from her shirtsleeve. “If you ask me, the Dauntless are too gun-happy anyway.” Fernando offers me the stunner. I wish I could communicate my gratitude to Cara, but she isn’t looking at me. “How am I going to conceal this thing?” I say. “Don’t bother,” Fernando says. “Right.

Dear Augustus: I will take care of Hazel if your you take care to Tris. - Love always Tobias.

Well, you can't love everything equally," she said. "You just can't - and if you did, then it's the same as loving nothing at all. So you have to hold just a few things dear because that's what love is. Particular. Specific.

Cover your knees, dear, and always keep them together in company.

Well, you can’t love everything equally,” she said. “You just can’t— and if you did, then it’s the same as loving nothing at all. So you have to hold just a few things dear, because that’s what love is. Particular. Specific.

Do you have a name?” Cyra asked, blunt as ever. “Or should we just call you ‘Oracle’?” “Ah, forgive my rudeness. My name is Vara,” she said. “I sometimes forget that the people I know do not know me, in turn. Is there anything I can do to make you less hostile, my dear?” She nodded to Cyra. “Or are you content to remain this way?” A faint crease appeared in Cyra’s cheek, the way it did when she was suppressing a smile. “Fine, I’ll sit,” she conceded. “But don’t read too much into it.” “I wouldn’t dare,” Vara said as Cyra perched on the edge of the bench next to Akos.

I’m sure I don’t have to point out to you that there is one bright spot in all this,” Vara said. “Your fates.” “Our fates,” I repeated, feeling stupid. “What about them?” “There is a reason the fates don’t name names,” Vara said. “The second child of the family Noavek will cross the Divide. The third child of the family Kereseth will die in service to the family Noavek. My dear girl, you are the third child of the family Kereseth. And I suspect your fate has already been fulfilled.” I made a big show of putting two fingers against the side of my throat to check for a pulse. “Silly me, thinking I hadn’t died in service--

I’m sure I don’t have to point out to you that there is one bright spot in all this,” Vara said. “Your fates.” “Our fates,” I repeated, feeling stupid. “What about them?” “There is a reason the fates don’t name names,” Vara said. “The second child of the family Noavek will cross the Divide. The third child of the family Kereseth will die in service to the family Noavek. My dear girl, you are the third child of the family Kereseth. And I suspect your fate has already been fulfilled.” I made a big show of putting two fingers against the side of my throat to check for a pulse. “Silly me, thinking I hadn’t died in service--” I cut myself off. But that wasn’t true, was it? My brother had tried to make me torture Akos, there in the underground prison where he had captured us and forced us to our knees. I had drawn all my currentgift into myself, trusting in my strength to keep me alive. But that strength had faltered--just for a moment, just enough to be considered a death. My heart had stopped, and then started again. I had come back. I had died for the family Noavek--I had died for Akos. I stared at him, wonderingly. The fate he had dreaded, the fate he had allowed to define him since he first heard it spoken by my brother’s lips…it was mine. And it was done.

Hello, Beatrice,” she says, and she smiles. “Am I done yet?” I say, and I’m not sure if I actually say it or if I just think it and she hears it. “Yes,” she says, her eyes bright with tears. “My dear child, you’ve done so well.” “What about the others?” I choke on a sob as the image of Tobias comes into my mind, of how dark and how still his eyes were, how strong and warm his hand was, when we first stood face-to-face. “Tobias, Caleb, my friends?” “They’ll care for each other,” she says. “That’s what people do.” I smile and close my eyes. I feel a thread tugging me again, but this time I know that it isn’t some sinister force dragging me toward death. This time I know it’s my mother’s hand, drawing me into her arms. And I go gladly into her embrace. Can I be forgiven for all I’ve done to get here? I want to be. I can. I believe it.