Quotes About Disguise

La ocupación sin pausa era una especie de terapia. La servicialidad agresiva disimulaba el hecho de que, en algún sentido importante, era de poca utilidad.

At various times in my undercover career I had either a full beard, a short-cropped beard, Fu Manchu, a plain simple moustache or just a goatee. We did that - generally we would have a look that we would maintain for anywhere from 3 to 6 months.

I hate greens. I hate vegetables, but greens - especially in a smoothie - are a great way for a big kid like me to hide my vegetables into the meal.

I am drawn to those parts; I like the tough girls because they are not tough. It's a veil; it's a disguise. It's defenses. At the core, everybody is human, everybody is fragile, everybody is terrified, and the fear is what propels you to be tough.

George Benson's 'This Masquerade' is my favorite version of Leon Russell's blue gem.

The whole point of wearing a disguise was to be seen wearing her.

He smiled at me, the irritating, superior kind of smile that I would love to try sometime when I wasn't in disguise. "You didn't read your history, did you?" he said. "I don't think this chapter was assigned. What are you talking about?

But she wasn't, and here she was again in the middle of a situation that called for fake smiles and bullshitting, two talents that were as alien to her as a Klingon mating dance.

Mr. Mustache spoke up, again without moving any facial muscles. "I neeeed," he said, drawing out the word pointlessly, "to learn Who. You. Are." That made even less sense than what Matthews had said, and I could think of no reply more penetrating than, "Oh, uh-huh Ã¢â'¬Â¦Ã¢â'¬Â It must have sounded just as feeble to him as it did to me, because he moved at last, turning his entire head in my direction and flipping up the sunglasses with one manicured finger.

Because I was following Deborah, several of them eyed me speculatively, but after many years of diligent maintenance, my disguise was too good for them, and they all decided that I was exactly what I wanted to appear—an absolute nonentity with no answers to anything. And so, relatively unmolested, battered only on the upper arm from Deborah's arm punch, I made it out of the press conference and, with my sister, back to the task force command center on the second floor. Somewhere

My car is right over here," Kraunauer said, steering me toward a modest-looking gray sedan with a stylized letter "B" on each hubcap. And in spite of that, it wasn't until I opened the door and saw the walnut-lined instrument panel and soft glove-leather seats that I realized the "B" stood for "Bentley." I slid onto the sweet-smelling seat and tried not to soil it by sweating or thinking impure thoughts.

I AM NOT REALLY PARANOID. I DON'T BELIEVE THAT I AM surrounded by mysterious enemies who seek to trap me, torture me, kill me. Of course, I know very well that if I allow my disguise to slip and reveal me for what I am, then this entire society will join together in calling for my slow and painful death, but this is not paranoia—this is a calm, clearheaded view of consensus reality, and I am not frightened by it. I simply try to be careful so it doesn't happen.

What Robert was trying to do so intently was, in fact, no more than craft. He did no more than copy my tics and twitches—even to the point of staring at my family portrait, a very personal part of my disguise, for his character research—

And yet—I could imitate all those things perfectly. And I actually wanted to. I had no interest in a sexual relationship. I wanted a disguise; Rita was exactly what I was looking for.

Of course, Rita would never know what I really was, not if I could help it. I had worked very hard to keep her blissfully ignorant of the true me, Dexter the Dark, the cheerful vivisectionist who lived for the purr of duct tape, the gleam of the knife, and the smell of fear rising up from a truly deserving playmate who had earned his ticket to Dexterland by slaughtering the innocent and somehow slipping through the gaping cracks in the justice system.… Rita

Mouse scurried to catch up with her, trying to match his strides to her long, fluid gait. She glanced down at his shabby garments and smudged face. "You'd best make certain nobody sees you with me," she reminded him. "You look like a street urchin." "I am a street urchin." He smirked up at her. "You were a street urchin.

College didn't erase the differences between how everyone grew up, but it disguised those differences—

It's almost religious, that belief, that faith that a piece of silk or denim or cotton jersey could disguise your flaws and amplify your assets and make you both invisible and seen, just another normal woman in the world; a woman who deserves to get what she wants.

The devil is already at the door, cleverly disguised as an engineer.

She felt like a child clad in the armour of an adult. She was perplexed at the respect she received from other adults; she expected them to see through her disguise at any moment, revealing her as an empress with no clothes. She needed someone to love and protect her from the world. She desperately sought closeness, but when someone came too close, she ran.

What I'm looking for is a blessing not in disguise.

But Horoscope is not home when Turpin comes to him for advice, so Horoscope's assistant, Titus Parable, poses as Horoscope.

Cauliflower pretending to be rice, oat milk pretending to be cow's milk. Jackfruit pretending to be meat when it's nothing like it. Nothing Ã¢â'¬Â¦ substantial.

This is my disguise, but it doesn't work.