Quotes About Buttercup

Wow," said Adrian. He sat down on the bed and tested its bounciness, giving it a nod of approval. "This is amazing. What do you think, buttercup?" "I have no words," I said honestly. He patted the spot beside him. "Want to try it out?

I'm going to have the daintiest things possible. . . things that will match the spring, you understand. . .little jelly tarts and lady fingers, and drop cookies frosted with pink and yellow icing, and buttercup cake.

This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a buttercup, resumed the stranger, continuing the remarks he had begun, and addressing himself to his auditors at the window

That suit has gone to your head. It's not the suit, buttercup. I don't do pet names. Do you do werewolves? Okay, I'm not talking to you anymore.

Buttercup, miserable even with Prim's constant attention, huddles in the cube and exhales cat breath in my face.

I spend the rest of the night on my mattress obsessively making knots, holding them up for Buttercup's inspection. If one looks suspicious, he swipes it out of the air and bites it a few times to make sure it's dead.

It's on the third night, during our game, that I answer the question eating away at me. Crazy Cat becomes a metaphor for my situation. I am Buttercup. Peeta, the thing I want so badly to secure, is the light.

As long as Buttercup feels he has the chance of catching the elusive light under his paws, he's bristling with aggression. (That's how I've been since I left the arena, with Peeta alive.)

You know, you better put Buttercup on your list of demands, too. I don't think the concept of useless pets is well known here.

Light gatherer. You fell from a star into my lap, the soft lamp at the bedside mirrored in you, and now you shine like a snowgirl, a buttercup under a chin, the wide blue yonder you squeal at and fly in

We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills." "You were misinformed," Buttercup told him. "There is no one, not for many miles." "Then there will be no one to hear you scream," the Sicilian said, and he jumped with frightening agility toward her face. William Goldman, The Princess Bride

Buttercup's mother whirled on him. 'Did you forget to pay your taxes?' (This was after taxes. But everything is after taxes. Taxes were here even before stew.)

But just as he knew the sun was obliged to rise each morning in the east, no matter how much a western arisal might have pleased it, so he knew that Buttercup was obliged to spend her love on him. Gold was inviting, and so was royalty, but they could not match the fever in his heart, and sooner or later she would have to catch it. She had less choice than the sun.

A word? the Sicilian said, raising his arms. His mile was more angelic than his face Buttercup halted. Speak. We are but poor circus performers, the Sicilian explained, It is dark and we are lost. We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills. You were misinformed, Buttercup told him, There is no one, not for many miles. Then there will be no one to hear you scream.

Buttercup sat up in bed. It must be his teeth. The farm boy did have good teeth, give credit where credit was due.

We are but poor circus performers. the Sicilian explained. It is dark and we are lost. We were told that there is a village nearby that might enjoy our skills. You were misinformed, Buttercup said. There is no one not for many miles. Then no one will be able to hear you scream. the Sicilian said, and he jumped with frightening agility toward her face.

The tears that kept Buttercup company the remainder of the day were not at all like those that had blinded her into the tree trunk. Those were noisy and hot; they pulsed. These were silent and steady and all they did was remind her that she wasn't good enough.

your milk, your milk has killed me" and then the child stiffened and cracked and turned in Buttercup's hands to nothing but dry dust and Buttercup screamed and screamed;

What do we do with these huge gifts of the throat and tongue? How do we manage? — Related to the Buttercup, Blooms in Spring