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Maybe that was why she couldn't cry, she realized, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling. Because what was the point in crying when there was no one there to comfort you? And what was worse, when you couldn't even comfort yourself?
Cassandra Clare
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Cassandra Clare
Age: 51
Born: 1973
Born: July 31
Author
Film Producer
Journalist
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Teheran
Judith Rumelt
Worse
Ceiling
Comfort
Ceilings
Couldn
Eyed
Maybe
Dry
Point
Crying
Even
Staring
Realized
Cry
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I am glad,” he said. “They will be able to take care of each other when I am gone, or at least I can hope for it. He says she does not love him, but—surely she will come to love him in time. Will is easy to love, and he has given her his whole heart. I can see it. I hope she will not break it.
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I like to listen to music that fits with what I'm writing. For each book, I've assembled a playlist, so readers can get a sense of what I was listening to while I was writing.
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And the answer is yes. I have loved you. I always have, and I always will.
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I may be a killer, Jace said, but I know what I am. Can you say the same?
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To her you're Jocelyn's daughter. But I'll always be Valentine's son
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Love and lies can corrupt even the purest heart.
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He was staring straight ahead, still breathing hard. “I have something I want to give you.” “I gathered that.” At that he jerked his gaze back to hers and almost reluctantly grinned. “Not that.
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That's the van? It looks like a rotting banana. This was undeniable - Eric had painted the van a neon shade of yellow, and it was blotched with dings and rust like splotches of decay.
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