Quotes About Harpy

Ella is nervous," the harpy muttered from her perch on the railing. "The elephant. The elephant is watching Ella.

she never knew when she might offend this inner harpy, Conscience, unwittingly: and lived in terror of those brazen claws, should she ever let it be hatched from the egg.

Devin, stay back! I've got this!" Heath says as he struggles to break free. I wave the pearl necklace higher. "It's a nice, sparkly necklace," I say. "So which do you want? Shiny jewelry or a smelly prince?" The harpy drops Heath to the floor and grabs the jewelry. Heath looks up at me in surprise. "You're welcome," I say...

she often had a temper that made a PMS-ing harpy going into nicotine withdrawal look like a chubby fuzzy bunny that burped daisies and shot rainbows out its ass.

The harpy smiles. A harpy's smile is an ugly thing, even seen edge-on. The harpy says, You do not have the power to make me not alone, Desiree.

And yet, as the reader will understand, Mr. Camperdown had by no means expressed his real opinion in this interview. He had spoken of the widow in friendly terms, — declaring that she was simply mistaken in her ideas as to the duration of her interest in the Scotch property, and mistaken again about the diamonds; — whereas in truth he regarded her as a dishonest, lying, evil-minded harpy.

The Sons of the Harpy are basically the people who represent the old regime. They don't want Daenerys in there governing them. Daenerys has this attitude about the fighting pits being reopened, which is part of their tradition. There's quite a considerable resentment to the fact that she doesn't want this to happen.

I noticed a still face in the maelstorm of activity; a white-skinned face, that did not smile. Shadow eyes. A veil about the head. I felt suddenly cold. The whirling corynantic dancers became mere phantoms in the aura of this motionless figure, this other woman. Her body was wrapped in a thick, dark cloak; only her face was visible. As if she'd been waiting for me to notice her, she came towards me, this true harpy-woman; her white face expressionless.

Only as he shut the door behind him, barricading Gwen inside lest she decide to risk bumping into one of his friends to explore, spy or even search for a phone to call the Hunters—she's not working for them, damn it!—did he realize he was about to knowingly pair a Harpy with the goddess of Anarchy. Great. He'd be lucky if his head was still attached in the morning.

did he realize he was about to knowingly pair a Harpy with the goddess of Anarchy. Great. He'd be lucky if his head was still attached in the morning.

Hugh got up. Would love to stay and play doctor, love, but duty calls. He headed for the door. Play doctor? Jackass. Harpy. Thank you for saving me in the woods, she said to his back. And for healing Alex. You're welcome. I'll see you downstairs in ten minutes. A moment later Rook slipped into her room and held out his writing pad. Hugh needed help? No, Elara said. He was terrifying.

He was building his own castle, and for better or worse, the harpy wormed her way into his world and became its tower.

The harpy at the other end of the hallway acted as if he were some revolting creature that crawled out from under a damp rock. The woman drove him nuts. Hugh alternated between wanting to strangle her and trying not to laugh as she fought off his verbal jabs. Making her snarl in frustration was the only thing that made the situation tolerable.

Is the turtle sick?" I asked to needle them. Maria gave me a look sharp enough to draw blood. "Hold your tongue, evil spawn." There's the old harpy I know. All is right with the world.

This careful script, of which he had composed both speaking parts, floated away into the milky sky. For the Countess had been unexpectedly transformed into a malevolent harpy. He fiddled with the fingertips of his black gloves. Sophie grabbed his sleeve, utterly beside herself. The flood of love and trust poured out in the offending letter was clearly undergoing a rapid and dramatic revolution. Now she was screaming, both at Max and the absent Sibyl.

Hermes was watching me, his head cocked like a curious bird. He was waiting for my reaction. Would I be skimmed milk for crying, or a harpy with a heart of stone? There was nothing between. Anything else did not fit cleanly in the laughing tale he wanted to spin of it.