Quotes About Contrast

Jane stood from a plush chair beside tall arched windows and smoothed her skirt over her thighs, her tailored navy skirt contrasting with Carel's flowing velvet as if it had been chosen to do so. Carel strode toward her, soft brown boots scuffing on her marble floor, and settled on her heels a measured four feet away.

She wondered how old they were, with their strange smooth faces and silken skin, and the muscled hands that didn't match their educated voices.

Claude was tall and bony, a beautiful woman with blunt-cut hair that had been white as feathers since she was in her twenties, and some of the lightest eyes Lesa had ever seen-which perhaps explained the depth of the crow's feet decorating her face. They couldn't all be from smiling, though Lesa wasn't sure she'd ever seen Claude not smiling. She had an arsenal of smiles, including a melancholy one for funerals.

His gratification was a chill stone on her breast.

Following a voice that sings only for his ears, the wolf steps from the cold emptiness of a dead world into the bustling street of one that is merely dying fast.

The dark moss of her cloak makes her hair shine all the brighter, and the green contrasts with the brilliant blue of her eyes.

The kiss was long and soft, fever-hot and gentle, although holding Perceval in her arms was not unlike embracing a rope ladder. Her lips were soft and cracked over the firmness of her teeth, and it seemed Rien expanded on her breath like a blown balloon.

Dry hands, hot, callused. Eyes dripping silver light, so it pooled and ran down the Wolf's creased cheeks like tears. But the look on his face wasn't sorrow.

She flitted from shadow to shadow, but he finally caught sight of her silhouetted against the lights in the eye-shattering cacophany of Times Square.

They came down together, the old wolf in his kilt and dinner jacket leaning on the young one in his cedar-smelling tuxedo.

Whatever he was before, he's but a candle-flicker now. A beautiful one, polished and glossy, all the more perfect for the terrible, disfiguring scar that puckers and knots the right side of his face when he smiles. It doesn't seem to bother the young man's admirers; if anything, the wolf thinks some of them find it erotic. The boy shies away like a startled horse, an animal he will never see when women and men wonderingly brush the raw-lipped pink line.

Rien noticed the sameness in the shape of their features. Though Percival's face was squarer, and Tristen's was long, they were both thin and tall, with deep-set eyes. His nose wandered, hers was incongruously pert. Nevertheless, Rien thought the resemblance would have been striking if Perceval still had her hair, and if Tristen's was pigmented rather than wooly and white and if the line of his jaw wasn't concealed by his beard.

He looks nothing like he did. But he is still ruined and still beautiful.

Selene smelled the old woman's flesh, acrid electronics, and consistency, and it helped drive the dangerous musk from her nostrils.

Katya, Lesa's surviving daughter, surprised the activity on the veranda, her glossy black hair braided off her neck, unhatted in the sun.

The woman looking back at me is a stranger indeed. Her hair has grown out into a sort of boyish bob, steel black, silvering bangs falling across her forehead. They mostly hide the places where smooth, paler skin blends into her tanned medium-brown hide. The skin on the left side of her face, near the hairline, is oddly mottled, like a frog.

The radiant globes on their high wrought-iron towers were an advantage to the dark-adapted eye, if one could manage not to be dazzled. For the shadows between were cool and velvet, and a man-or something shaped like a man-in muffling black could vanish into them.

His laugh came forth as a voiceless sob.

You dress in shadows, brother, but there is starlight in your eyes.

He was shining dark, and exceeding fair: beautiful and awful, his long hands pale as bones against the red velvet of his coat.

Her long green-and-silver body lay like a jeweled ribbon dropped on the dust-colored winter grass near that strange white tree, her woman's torso rose among the ice-covered branches, her hands upraised like a supplicating sinner.

We might have been two opposite halves of one thing, complementary and conflicted.

She was not accustomed to finding someone with such obvious male attributes attractive. But the eyes and the throat and the breasts were all woman, if the long hands and torso and crotch were all wrong.

My braid was silver-black where his is like winter butter, but his eyes are gray as mine and as full of starlight.