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Tears stung her eyes. She sank her knees next to the sleeping bench and gently raked strands of golden hair from him forehead. Don't you die. don't you dare. I forbid it. As if Han Alister had ever listened to anything she said.
Cinda Williams Chima
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Cinda Williams Chima
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: January 1
Author
Novelist
Writer
Springfield
Ohio
Eyes
Listened
Sank
Dies
Sleeping
Forbid
Eye
Knees
Bench
Next
Golden
Forehead
Anything
Dare
Strands
Ever
Tears
Benches
Hair
Foreheads
Raked
Sleep
Gently
Stung
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It was a peculiar marriage of interests- Lord Averill and Captain Byrne and Lord Bayar and Han Alister agreeing on anything was as rare as gold in Ragmarket.
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Will you give the girl to me? she said. Will you let me try? He nodded, dizzy with relief. Please, Willo. Please. Save her. It doesn't matter...what happens to me.
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Which is a sad thing when you're only seventeen.
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But I don't want your throne. Then what do you want? You.
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Ellen could have killed me, Jack said quietly, but she didn't. She saved my life. How come? Fitch demanded. After all this? Ellen turned scarlet and stared at the ground. Maybe none of my opponents ever gave me flowers before, she mumbled.
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Han made no effort to put up a brave front. Most of the time he just screamed himself hoarse, though a couple of times he amused himself by screaming Fionas's name as if he were in the throes of passion. FEEE-OHHH-NAAA! Lord Bayar made him pay for that, but afterward, Fiona didn't come down anymore, which Han appreciated.
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I continue to believe in miracles. But i know that miracles come to those who work very hard
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(A)ny time you buy weapons, or build an army, you begin to look for an excuse to use them. Plus, you pose more of a threat to others.
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But maybe it's better to go after something, and not get it, than to not even try.
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His aster-blue eyes shown out from a face blackened by bruises and soot, his fair hair glittering in the firelight. Dressed all in black, silhouetted against flame, he looked rather like a demon, raised from the dead, trading for souls on the other side.
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And it's not just a matter of you hurting me. I will hurt you too, even if I don't want to, I'm not the girl you think I am. And you will remember this conversation , and wish that you'd listened to me.
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A fiction writer is never entirely alone. Her characters are constantly whispering in her ear.
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