Quotes About Pale

For that pale breast and lingering hand Come from a more dream-heavy land, A more dream-heavy hour than this; And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew.

She was young and very beautiful, but pale, like the grey pallor of death.

I have seen statues that would look stodgy beside her, I have seen painted Madonnas whose features would be coarse beside her pale luminous loveliness.

Shane looked…pale. Pale and shaken and—how predictable was this?—pissed.

You want to go play with your new friends back there? The really pale ones with the taste for plasma? --Shane

Myrnin wasn't especially tall, but he was just . . . strangely cool. Long, curling, lush black hair that fell to his shoulders. His face was vampire-pale, but it suited him, somehow, and he had the kind of sharp features that would have made him a star if he'd wanted to be in the movies. Big, expressive dark eyes and full lips. Definitely cover-model material.

The guy at the cash register is a redhead in his thirties with freckles and a two-inch-diameter birthmark, as pink as uncooked salmon, on his pale forehead. The mark is uncannily like the image of a fetus curled in a womb, as if a gestating twin had died early in the mother's pregnancy and left its fossilized image on the surviving brother's brow.

You're real," he whispered. I had thought him pale already. Now all vestiges of color drained from his face.

Jamie's face, already drawn and grim, grew somewhat grimmer at this question. The completest of landlubbers, he was not just prone to seasickness, but prostrated by it. He had been violently ill all the way from Inverness to Le Havre, though sea and weather had been quite calm. Now, some six hours later, safe ashore in Jared's warehouse by the quay, there was still a pale tinge to his lips and dark circles beneath his eyes.

All the people are in a hurry--and sometimes they look pale under those lights, then the girls' dresses look like they're not paid off yet and the men can't really afford the wine--is nobody really happy? Now it's all getting dark. Where is my shiny Berlin?

He is haggard, he is pale. A handsome young man, brown eyes and brown hair, something in his face that will never be at ease.

I am happy to see you, Masood." "Happy? Happy? What a pale, pathetic English word. You must not be 'happy' to see me. No, you must be enraptured, transported! You must be overjoyed . I have no use for 'happy'.

There she stood. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her face was pale, almost snow-white. She probably hadn't slept, either. She was still wearing the same dress. Her hair looked like a bomb had gone off. She was beautiful.

All around are walls, for protection." Then her finger stopped its movement and rested on the soft center of her palm. "This is the pale." "So if you're beyond the pale…" "You're an outsider," said Myrna. "A threat." She slowly closed her hand.

Or if I truly gave up I could be like Wet Lindsay. When Robbie dumped her she got all pale and even wetter than normal. She was like an anoraksick. (A person who is both very thin and wears tragic anoraks.) I just made that up as a joke. Even though I am very upset I can still think of a joke.

Anne.... was so pale and tragic at breakfast next morning that Marilla was alarmed and insisted on making her a cup of scorching ginger tea. Anne sipped it patiently, although she could not imagine what good ginger tea would do. Had it been some magic brew, potent to confer age and experience, Anne would have swallowed a quart of it without flinching.

Hers were the pale gray that made you think of nightfall and silver bullets and the edge of winter. The color that filled the sky before it was torn in half by lightening.

Death wasn't a movie where the pretty star faded away with a touch of pale makeup and every hair in place.

He was Death, and he'd ridden in on a pale horse...

Dark circles under my eyes sink deeper and deeper into my skull, in contrast to my pale skin there is an undeniable resemblance to a fresh corpse.

You don't need a sad soul to feel the beauty of a dead graveJust stay with the pale moonwhen darkness wants the night to be brave

And I looked and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death.

silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grow pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you.

For it looked as if the walls were simply dissolving in the rain; those stones still standing, pale and insubstantial as rice paper, seemed ready to melt away under my very eyes if I just stood there long enough.