Quotes from Lauren Willig

Amy wondered if Bonaparte could declare war on Miss Gwen alone without breaking his peace with England

That's a good point, I suppose,' he said in that way people have when you've just said something that's so off the mark it might as well be in Sanskrit, but they like you, so they want to make something positive out of it so they can give you the credit you both know you don't deserve.

All this rapture," managed Letty, wriggling out of her mother's grasp, "is decidedly premature.

For the first time, Mary understood what drove animals to bite the hand that fed them—sheer irritation at being patronized.

There's nothing like competing for your boyfriend's attention with an emotionally needy sibling to make you feel like the worst sort of evil psycho-bitch.

Amy read Ovid and Virgil and Aristophanes and Homer. She read dry histories and scandalous love poetry (her governesses, who had little Latin and less Greek, naïvely assumed that anything in a classical tongue must be respectable), but mostly she returned again and again to The Odyssey. Odysseus had fought to go home, and so would Amy.

A basket of wildflowers on Jane's arm testified to a walk along the grounds, but she bore no sign of outdoor exertion. No creases dared to settle in the folds of her muslin dress; her pale brown hair remained obediently coiled at the base of her neck; and even the loops of the bow holding her bonnet were remarkably even. Aside from a bit of windburn on her pale cheeks, she might have been sitting in the parlour all afternoon.

This was Hist and Lit, after all. If you couldn't work the term liminal into your tutorial, you were doing it wrong.

I'm not sure intentions make much difference in the end. I hear the road to hell is paved with them. She meant it frivolously, but Olivia answered seriously, Yes, but one does have to live with one's self. Not necessarily...There are any number of ways to avoid living with one's self. Gin, for example. Yes, but you're still there at the base of it aren't you. Only with a terrible head in the morning.

Don't worry," said Lizzy brightly, dancing into the chamber in a peculiar costume that was part Robin Hood and part Paris frock. "I have my crossbow." Nicolas regarded the costume appreciatively. "That is a most unusual ensemble, mademoiselle. But becoming." "I know," said Lizzy. "And I still have my crossbow." Nicolas bowed his head in acknowledgment.

This was what the poets couldn't put in their poetry, she thought dumbly, the rush of desire so fierce and pure it made one shake, all on the force of a word.

I should have known something was wrong when my advisor's parting words were Good luck. To his credit, he had—very gently—suggested that I might want to consider a different sort of topic. But I didn't want to consider another topic. I was madly in love with my topic: "Aristocratic Espionage during the Wars with France, 1789- 1815." It had dash, it had swash, it had buckle.

The woman in purple subjected Jack to a critical inspection. "You must be Jack. Jane succeeded in part of her mission, at least." And then: "You don't look at all as I expected." "Fewer horns?" said Jack tersely.

Even Sally wound't want to cross fans with the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale. The woman had a tongue of steel and drank the blood of young virgins for breakfast.

Word of advice, sister mine. If you want to keep your papers private, don't write 'Private' on the cover. It set the mater right off. It was all I could do to stop her sniffing around like some great sniffing thing.

His look felt like a touch

Most of the time, there is no truth, only various levels of interpretation. Fact is a construct we provide to the public.

Of course, they don't like him! Liking is for ninny-hammers. Real men elicit rancor. Pausing for a moment of deep consideration, she added, Loathing, even. But never liking. Hatred, perhaps? suggested Mary's brother-in-law, hiding his amused smile behind a tone of excessive gravity. Mrs. Fustian was not impressed. Certainly not. Any common laborer can hate. True connoisseurs prefer more subtle shades of aversion.

it felt a bit like five chapters into an Agatha Christie novel, everyone milling around, looking vaguely suspect.

She could feel herself pressing the details into memory, saving them like dried flowers kept in a spinster's chest, relics of a past that might have been, of a future that never was.

Only the silver head of his cane blazed with reflected fire, held aloft above the grave like a medieval necromancer summoning spirits from the vasty deep.

there is no friend like a sister / In calm or stormy weather; / To cheer one on the tedious way, / To fetch one if one goes astray, / To lift one if one totters down, / To strengthen whilst one stands.'" Bea was much struck by this. "How lovely

If you want to be loved, don't take on responsibility.

Patience, she said in her best governess voice, is only a virtue when there is something worth waiting for.