Quotes About Elegance

Her face was concealed behind a black velvet mask strewn with diamonds, and diamonds gleaned in the candlelight among the gauzy black silk of her veils.

His name flew from her lips as if on the wings of a swan.

Jane pivoted in her desinger shoes and pressed one side of the double doors open with her fingertips; solid oak swung away from her touch, hung so perfectly it moved like rice paper.

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

Even Matthew, whose taste did not run that way at all, could see that he was beautiful, his black hair slicked back, his suit impeccably tailored and his claret tie fastened with a silver stickpin, a fleur-de-lis that matched the discreet medallions on his cordovon loafers.

The poet stripped off his gloves with an elegantly negligent gesture and smiled up at the Queens. Will wondered if anyone else could see what Kit's smile cost.

Tristen shook his head, his white hair shedding snowflakes as if it were made of snow itself.

The atmosphere of money enfolded Peese like cling film when he entered Jane's apartment. It coated his skin, thick and silken; it slid down his throat like buttermilk. It intimidated. It was meant to.

It was not yet noon, but under the shadow of the conifers twilight ruled.

Her lips were lacquered red as the rubies waved through her hair like frozen blood, and diamonds set in platinum glittered in her ears and on her wrists and at her throat, cold as a frost-hardened dew.

Startle not. Startle not, my beauty.

Somehow she managed to enter the corridor, third in line, but dripping all the dignity she could master, and perversely glad she'd smoothed her hair.

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.

Vincent stood, all lithe grace, and let his hand rest warmly on Michelangelo's shoulder.

Slowly, slowly, she turned to look over her shoulder, the fall of her hair kissing the high bone of her cheek.

She let her hand slide across the tailored dark fabric of his trousers before leaning back, curling against the arm of the loveseat in a manner that would have horrified her tutors.

She was fashionably thin, the line of her jaw sharp as the detail on a porcelain horse, the tendons in her throat vanishing under the ivory silk collar of her suit.

Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)

That Sunday, from six o'clock in the evening, it was a Viennese orchestra that played.

He had not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his bones, and leanness goes a great way towards gentility.

What is the distinguishing mark of an aristocrat?' she asked him suddenly. 'Reverence,' he replied.

His hostess was one of those women who even in an overcrowded room can create a sense of spaciousness.

her voice sounded like a tarnished silver spoon.