Quotes About Emotion

Is this why, for countless days, In my arms I carried you, Is this why your strength had blazed Through your lively eyes of blue!

You haunt me still somehow, I've saved each word from you. — Anna Akhmatova, White Flock: Poetry of Anna Akhmatova . Translated by Andrey Kneller (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform July 30, 2013)

Magdalene wept in a furious daze, The dear disciple stood still, like a stone.

Like thick and tangled hair Of Magdalenes half-crazed.

A man may be as much a fool from the want of sensibility as the want of sense.

She admonished him, saying 'I think I hate you,' which meant she didn't because 'I think I hate you' is the same as 'probably I hate you', which is the same as 'I don't know if I hate you', which is the same as 'I don't hate you, oh my God, my love, I love you, still love you, always, always have I loved you and never have I stopped loving you'.

also found the situation unworkable. Not just unworkable – ridiculous. Not just ridiculous – perturbing.

That was a mistake: to have been emotional, to have been seen and heard to be emotional,

He had never said her name. Indeed, he couldn't say it. Not because he's forgotten it. Mot certainly he hadn't forgotten it. It was the dread of the capitulation of it, of the handing over of himself in it, of what it might take from him to pay her the compliment of letting her know he really knew her name.

He had never said her name. Indeed, he couldn't say it. Not because he'd forgotten it. Mot certainly he hadn't forgotten it. It was the dread of the capitulation of it, of the handing over of himself in it, of what it might take from him to pay her the compliment of letting her know he really knew her name.

She's the stuff that lava is made of, not rain.

You love me," he said slowly, wonderingly. Then with greater certainty, "By God, you love me." His astonished laugh ended on a choked note as he snatched her hand. "So much," she said huskily. Her fingers curled hard around his. "So very, very much.

He'd always loved how she fought him. He loved the crackle and spark of her wit. Now he discovered he also loved the way she lay against him in what felt like perfect trust. … Antonia was a tall, vital woman, no shrinking miss. Now she felt brittle and vulnerable. He tightened his hold and told himself the surge of protectiveness meant nothing. Again he couldn't quite believe it.

Then she'd stared at him with those radiant blue eyes and asked him to let her go. And bugger, bugger, bigger, he'd suddenly imagined he was sodding Sir Galahad.

He swallowed again and tightened his grip so even if she wanted to leave, she couldn't. It astonished him how difficult it was to find the one word he needed after these exquisite days. The one word he had no right to say. He forced the forbidden syllable from his tight throat. "Stay.

She shook her head. "No, Jonas." " 'No, Jonas' is all you ever say," he responded with a hint of savagery. He knew he was unfair, but he was just so damned miserable. Her smile wavered into a warmth that calmed his anger. "Not always." He shut his eyes as the memory of wild nights overpowered him. Good God, at this rate, he'd be bawling like a motherless calf.

Open your mouth, tesoro." He angled her face higher. "Open your mouth for me." At his raw demand, her eyes flared wide. For a drunken moment, he drowned in glorious brown, rich, autumnal, sensual.

He looked younger, kinder, a brighter image of the man she knew. A man life hadn't mistreated or betrayed. Whatever the pain of this union, she loved that she gave him this momentary peace. This encounter lurched from the physical onto a different plane. A plane revealing a new emotional landscape. She felt lightheaded, lost.

Giles kissed her again, hard and furious. As if he hated her. He'd been in love for years, yet he'd never realized love could be like this. Like someone struck him with a club over and over again. Like fire devouring him. Sweet and terrible. Painful and fierce.

He'd called her a sparrow. If he made the slightest untoward movement, his wild bird would fly away into the forest and he'd never find her again. And the strangest result of the last days was the certainty that if Miss Philippa Sanders left his life, it would be immeasurably poorer.

She swallowed, sent him a wild look, and rushed out. The slam of the door echoed through the empty corridor as she collapsed breathless against the wall outside his room. In a futile attempt to quiet her galloping heart, she pressed one trembling hand to her heaving chest. What in Hades must Lyle make of her bizarre behavior? He must think her raving mad. Right now, she was inclined to agree. Charlotte

He felt like he'd been belted in the head with a cricket bat. Dizzy and breathless and befuddled. He'd expected Charlotte to be pretty. He hadn't expected her to send his whole world reeling. He

Her lack of welcome couldn't dampen his happiness at seeing her. He'd never been in love before. He'd never imagined love could strike a man harder than a rock falling on his head. Harder, and with the same lack of warning. But watching the slim, golden-haired woman lit by stark gray light through the high windows, he admitted the inescapable truth. He was head over heels with Charlotte Warren. He

She blinked and with surprising reluctance, stepped apart from him. Another horrid blush stained her cheeks, and she only just stopped herself from raising a hand to touch where he'd kissed her. Her skin burned where his lips had touched.