Quotes About Beauty

Did you know I dream about your hair? I use to say it was the color of the sun at sunset, but I'm wrong. It's brighter than the sun, just as you are.

But looking beautiful isn't, I think, as important as feeling beautiful

All three men looked at the woman in the doorway, but they all saw different things. Alex saw a rather attractive young lady with a remarkable air of vitality in her silver eyes. John saw the woman he'd come to like and admire tremendously this past week, looking rather fetching and grown-up in her new gown and coiffure. Dunford saw an angel.

Full lips are better for kissing.

Billie laughed at that, full and throaty, and once again she became so incandescently beautiful that George was half-tempted to throw a blanket over her, just to stop anyone else from wanting her.

They all turned to the dark-haired woman standing quietly to the side and slightly behind Aunt Charlotte. She was, in a word, gorgeous. Everything about her was perfection, from her shiny hair to her milky-white skin. Her face was heart-shaped, her lips full and pink, and her eyelashes were so long that Honoria thought they must touch her brows if she opened her eyes too wide. "Well," Honoria murmured to Iris, "at least no one will be looking at us.

I don't think Henrietta suits anyone," she replied. Then she offered him her cheeky smile, and Alex saw in an instant why Dunford was falling like a rock for this girl. She had spirit, and although she didn't realize it yet, she had beauty, and Dunford didn't have a chance.

I've always thought that violet ribbons look especially nice with brown hair.

It occurred to him that perhaps he ought not to have married a woman with such extraordinary eyes.

I should love to see a ground-glass blue ocean

Anyone who took the time to really look at Francesca's eyes would have realized that they were quite their own color. As if the sky could even compare.

Of course. The team on your carriage was beautiful. They are yours, aren't they?" He ignored her and walked ahead until his foot connected with soft mushy ground. "Shit," he muttered. "Exactly." He glared at her, thinking himself a saint for not going for her throat.

This was different. He didn't want a woman. He wanted her. And he supposed that if he had to spend the afternoon being strange, sad, and disfigured just to be in her company, it would be well worth it. Then he remembered the wart. He turned to Miss Wynter and said firmly, "I am not getting a wart." Really, a man had to draw the line somewhere.

The eggs were extremely interesting, as was the bacon,and the hydrangeas outside the window were absolutely fascinating. hydrangeas.who would have imagined?

You are so beautiful,' he whispered. She must have heard those words before, thousands of times, but he wanted her to hear them from *him*.

She was his comet, his shooting star. She sparkled like the heavens, and when she smiled it felt like mathematical equations sliding into place. The world in balance, each side properly weighted. She was everything that was beauty, and everything that was brilliant, and he was – He was not well.

Just George? Farmer George? Come. Hide from the heavens with me.

And her lips, he realized now that she wasn't hurling insults at him, were utter perfection, full and pink, and touched with just the right sort of curve. They seemed to tell a man that she knew things, that she knew how to laugh, and if he only laid down his soul for her, she would light up his world with a single smile. Sarah Pleinsworth. Good God, had he lost his mind?

Just her and the great outdoors. Gwendolyn Margaret Passmore and a million blades of grass.

As she spoke, she turned her face toward his, and in that instant, with the wind catching her hair and painting her cheeks pink, she looked so enchantingly lovely that Simon nearly forgot to breathe.

this was poetry, this was music. This was love.

While heavily pregnant with Amelia, she had asked him if she was radiant or if she just looked like a waddling duck. He told her she'd looked like a radiant duck. This had not been the correct answer.)

Anthony knew he was being fanciful, but when he gazed upon her face, he could not help thinking of the new dawn, of that exact moment when the sun was creeping over the horizon, painting the sky with its subtle palette of peaches and pinks.

Blond hair, not too blond. Blue eyes—again, not too blue. Awkwardly shaped mouth that never quite held still the way she wanted it to, and the same nondescript nose with the same seven freckles, including the one close to her eye that no one ever noticed but her. It looked like Ireland. She didn't know why that interested her, but it always had.