Quotes About Alley

Darkness was a beautiful thing. The kiss of a shadow. A caress as soft as moonlight. It had always been my refuge, my place of escape, whether I was sneaking onto a rooftop lit only by the stars or down a midnight alley to be with my brothers.

There he lay spooked, a spinning wheel in a celestial bowling alley.

HitchBOT made it as far as Philadelphia, where the doll was dismembered and left in a dark alley.4

O'Neill jumped out into the road, jammed a note into the driver's hand, and dodged another motorcyclist as he made his way past the endless huddle of peep shows and Chinese restaurants into a narrow, Dickensian alley piled high with rubbish.

Its mouth was wide and its teeth were wickedly pointed. He managed a brief "Hey!" and jerked away from the window...just as the rat hit the glass with a furry, wet thump. It slid down to the alley one floor below, where it staggered around in stunned surprise.

Love leaped out in front of us like a murderer in an alley leaping out of nowhere, and struck us both at once.

Love leaped out in front of us like a murderer in an alley leaping out of nowhere, and struck us both at once. As lightning strikes, as a Finnish knife strikes! She, by the way, insisted afterwards that it wasn't so, that we had, of course, loved each other for a long, long time, without knowing each other, never having seen each other…

Shadows fell across us, a flicker in dim light. Somebody passed at the mouth of the alley. He said, "We could both be killed." I whispered, "Sure. In grade school, a boy choked on Jell-O, it's that common." I laughed, drunk on our future. Death seemed a small risk. "We can have the world.

A man walked in long strides through the darkness toward them. Nothing but a dark silhouette, shadow against shadow, he walked down the alley with the grace of a predator.

In business since 1948 and claiming to serve 10,000 meals a day, the Rendezvous lies in a busy cellar down an alley near the grand Peabody Hotel, known for the trained ducks that waddle through its lobby twice daily to the music of John Philip Sousa.

Farther up, in the recess formed by the palace wing, was a clock. And behind that clock, the cell of the Prisoner of Zenda. No stroller in the Carrousel gardens ventured down that alley. We spent entire afternoons playing amid the broken birdbaths and statues, the stones and dead leaves. The hands of the clock never moved. They forever struck five-thirty. Those immobile hands enveloped us in a deep, soothing silence. We only had to stay in the alley and nothing would ever change.

Fifty yards farther, he turned off to the right up the rue des Marais, a narrow alley hardly a span wide and darker still—if that was possible. Strangely enough, the scent was not much stronger. It was only purer, and in its augmented purity, it took on an even greater power of attraction. Grenouille walked with no will of his own.