Just like hair frames our face, brows frame our eyes. I see so much potential in harmonized beauty whenever I see a woman who's not filling in her brows, and I just want to go in with my brow pencil and just be like, 'Filling in eyebrows, OK, done - look in the mirror and be inspired.' That's one of my pet peeves, but beauty is subjective.
Did you follow me here?" "Something like that." I let out a frustrated groan. "Can't anyone just talk to me straight? Why is everyone avoiding my damn questions tonight?" Bishop's brows went up. "Okay, fine. Yes, I followed you here. Better?" "Yes. Stalkery, but better." "I'm not stalking you." "Spoken like a true stalker
She might not know what your routine is, but I do," I said softly. "So put the lantern down. You're not burning me yet, and we both know it." "What's she saying?" Sarah demanded, hobbling over. His white brows drew together, and I allowed a little smile to play on my lips. "Awfully bossy with you, isn't she? Then again, it makes sense. She's got the pants on, and you're the one in the dress.
My dowry is thirty-five. A year." His brows climbed. "You're joking." "I would never joke about money with a notorious thief. Just imagine, in a mere two years you're at a profit." "How I adore a woman who does mathematics in her head." "I can forge signatures as well." "Splendid. Exactly the bride I've been hoping for.
When I know I have a huge shoot, I'll just go into the sauna and steam out my face. Product-wise, I don't really do much because I sometimes think products make me break out . I just use normal soap and water and moisturizer. My brows are really important to me but I've never plucked or waxed them. I'll just fill them in with Anastasia brow kit.
She's your partner in all things. Remember how Ma and Pa used to act?' Simon nodded as he sat beside him. 'Every decision, every action taken together.' James raised his brows as he leaned against the wall. 'That's a tall order. Based on some of the married folks I've seen in town, not every marriage is such a joyful union.
Evil can be got very easily and exists in quantity: the road to her is very smooth, and she lives near by. But between us and virtue the gods have placed the sweat of our brows; the road to her is long and steep, and it is rough at first; but when a man has reached the top, then she is easy to attain, although before she was hard.
I've always wanted to be a journalist, but what am I going to do? Write articles about which movie star had the fat sucked from her ass and injected into her face? Which professional athlete just confessed to shooting steroids? The last celebrity baby names?" Cara lowered both brows in frustration. "Who cares?
Wouldn't be surprising. Most immortal females behave like they're in heat." Her brows rose. "You are the one who taught me about pleasure."... "And now in another lifetime, you ridicule me for missing it? Come on, Chase. Take me to where you live. Scared I'll find some footy pajamas? A fleshlight? I want a bath almost as much as you need to watch me take one. I get so much more talkative when I'm clean. Loreans are really fastidious, you know.
I am happy to pay you, " she announced. "For your services." A harsh, strangled sound cut through the room. It came from him. "Pay me." She nodded. "Would say, twenty-five pounds do?" "No." Her brows knit together. "Of course, a person of your-prowess-is worth more. I apologize for the offense. Fifty? I'm afraid I can't go much higher. It's quite a bit of money.
You do not mind my humor?' 'Not at all. I've not laughed like this ... ' His brows drew together. 'I think I've never laughed like this.' 'Usually I exasperate people. And I jest at inappropriate times. Such as during executions. Freya says 'tis my gift and my bane to frustrate others.' 'I like your manner, Reginleit. Life is long without humor.
With the growth of Harvard from a small provincial college into a great University, a unique paranoia has swept the ranks of local officialdom, furrowing brows throughout University Hall. The lurking fear is that somehow, in the operations of the gigantic administrative machine, a student might get lost in the shuffle.
J. Anthony Lukas
The eyes were hollow and the carven head was broken, but about the high, stern forehead there was a coronal of silver and gold. A trailing plant with flowers like white stars had bound itself across the brows as if in reverence for the fallen king, and in the crevices of his stony hair yellow stonecrop gleamed. "They cannot conquer for ever!" said Frodo.
J. R. R. Tolkien
Oh! Be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered, and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
No, its the poor I tell you, and the poor only, as does such things for the poor. Don't think to come over me with th' old tale, that the rich knows nothing of the trials of the poor; I say, if they don't know, they ought to know. We're their slaves as long as we can work; we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows, and yet we are to live as separate as if we were in two worlds... " Chap. 1, p. 12
I believe that Gaston Cleric narrowly missed being a great poet, and I have sometimes thought that his outbursts of imaginative talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of personal communication. How often have I seen him draw his dark brows together, fix his eyes upon some object on the wall or a figure in the carpet, and then flash into the lamplight the very image that was in his brain.
She stretched out her hand, saying, "Vernon! My dear, what a delightful surprise!" "What's surprising about it?" he enquired, lifting his black brows. "Didn't you ask me to come?" The smile remained pinned to Lady Buxted's lips, but she replied with more than a touch of acidity: "To be sure I did, but so many days ago that I supposed you had gone out of town!" "Oh, no!" he said, returning her smile with one of great sweetness.
No, you should stay right where you are, or my estranged brother and I will settle our difference by seeing who can break more of your bones." Tod glanced at him, brows raised. "You want to settle our differences?" Nash frowned. "No, I want to break every bone in his body, and I didn't think you'd let me do it alone." Tod nodded. "Good call.
Maybe that was why another part of me-a very small part-had wanted to kiss Wallace then. Both sides of his mouth, between his brows, and every other place those stupid worry lines marred his expression. That part of me had wanted to hold him tight and give him the comfort I knew he couldn't ask for. But that part terrified me the most.
Everything okay?" Cam asked, placing his hand on my lower back. Concern pinched his brows. "Yes." I dropped my cell back into my bag. Everything was okay. Maybe not perfect, but life wasn't meant to be perfect. It was messy and sometimes it was a disaster, but there was beauty in the messiness and there could be peace in the disaster.
I want to make a bet with you." Her interest perked up. "You do? About what?" Already knowing it wouldn't go over well, Spencer braced himself. "I bet you can't go a month without cursing." Her chin tucked in, and her brows came down. "What does that have to do with anything?" He had no idea, except that it annoying him to hear her be so coarse. "Go a month without cursing." He hated himself, but he said, "Every time you slip, you owe me a kiss.
Mountains are nature's testimonials of anguish. They are the sharp cry of a groaning and travailing creation. Nature's stern agony writes itself on these furrowed brows of gloomy stone. These reft and splintered crags stand, the dreary images of patient sorrow, existing verdureless and stern because exist they must.
Harriet Beecher Stowe
Which is your bad shoulder?" His brows knit together. "The left, " he said carefully. She slugged him in the right. He staggered. Steadied himself. Grinned. "Is that like some weird Wyoming mating ritual thing I should know about?" "Damn you, " she cried, flying into his arms. Finally. "Damn you, damn you, damn you!" He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was such a coward.
When the warrior returns, from the battle afar,To the home and the country he nobly defended,O! warm be the welcome to gladden his ear,And loud be the joy that his perils are ended:In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.
Francis Scott Key
Do you really want to know why you lost?" I asked. "Do you really have an answer?" he countered. "You need to get off your horse and run with your men. You don't have the stamina for a long fight. And find a lighter sword." "But it was my uncle's." "You're not your uncle." "But I'm the King, and this is the King's sword," Cahil said. His brows creased together. He seemed confused. "So wear it to your coronation," I said. "If you use it in battle, you'll be wearing it to your funeral," I said.
Maria V. Snyder
Sylph and Jodi return to my side, each carrying a cloth sack full of chickweed. I wrap my arm around Sylph's waist and give her a quick squeeze. "Lesson's over for today. I have something to discuss with Logan." "Sounds serious." Jodi wiggles her brows at me. "I think that's just Rachel for 'I need to go kiss my boy.'" Sylph laughs when I glare at her.
(Nicholas)"Am I dead?" An odd question, but then she rememberd her mourning attire. "No sir, you are not." He relaxed a moment, then turned his head slightly as if searching for other passengers. His brows dived in a scowl. Am I married?" She wasn't sure how to answer. His kid gloves hid any evidence of his matrimonial state, but his expression of instantaneous alarm and regret suggested he was referring specifically to her. No sir, we are not.
He glared down at her. 'Yes. But you must not cry. I won't get you any dresses if you cry.' 'I don't normally cry.' 'You will never do it.' 'Well, I'm afraid I may sometimes, ' she said apologetically. 'Women need to cry.' Lines formed between his brows. 'How many times in a year?''Maybe five or six, ' she said, thinking about it. 'But really, it's usually a very small cry and not in front of anyone At that, his scowl grew even darker. 'I will permit you to cry four times a year. And you will do it when I am here.
He pauses then, studying me. 'How would you have done it?' His question surprises me. 'You mean how would I have killed you?' 'Yes. Do you have a favorite method for such things?' Since he knows I am an assassin, there is no need to be coy. 'I prefer a garrote. I like the intimacy it allows me when I whisper reminders of vengeance in their ears as they die. But in your case, I had sharpened my favorite knife especially for the occasion.' His brows quirk up. 'Why no garrote for me?' I look pointedly at his thick neck, bulging with muscle and sinew. 'I do not have one big enough, ' I mutter.
Christopher felt a smile -his first genuine smile in a long time- pulling at his lips. "Does Miss Hathaway have many suitors?" "Oh, yes. But none of them want to marry her." "Why is that, do you imagine?" "They don't want to get shot, " the child said, shrugging. "Pardon?" Christopher's brows lifted. "Before you marry, you have to get shot by an arrow and fall in love, " the boy explained.
Damn, but it was a night, Ned! Now, not to be outdone, it appears our reverend mother Hayes is inspired by Captain Cook's latest voyage to the South Pacific." "I give the woman credit for creativity." Ned laughed. "Have you read John Hawkesworth's account of the voyage?" Ludovic's brows lifted ever so slightly. "Come now, Ned, do I truly look like a man who entertains himself with books?
No temple made with hands can compare with Yosemite. Every rock in its walls seems to glow with life...Awful in stern, immovable majesty, how softly these rocks are adorned, and how fine and reassuring the company they keep: Their feet among beautiful groves and meadows, their brows in the sky, a thousand flowers leaning confidingly against their feet, bathed in floods of water, floods of light...
I saw thee in a vision of the night Transfigured; for it seemed that on thy brows The heavens did rest with all their stars, like boughs Laden with blossoms; round thy feet the bright Green waves, like grass, ran rippling, strewn with white Star-fragments of rent petals: wasted vows, And ruined prayers I thought them, such as house In hearts that love and are not loved aright.
Great writers, I discovered, were not to be bowed down before and worshipped, but embraced and befriended. Their names resounded through history not because they had massive brows and thought deep incomprehensible thoughts, but because they opened windows in the mind, they put their arms round you and showed you things you always knew but never dared to believe. Even if their names were terrifyingly foreign and intellectual sounding, Dostoevsky, Baudelaire or Cavafy, they turned out to be charming and wonderful and quite unalarming after all.
Go out and ask her into the alley." Clay looked at Jeremy as if he'd just been told to dance the rumba on a public thoroughfare. I bit back a laugh. "Just walk over to her and point at the alley. Maybe say... I don't know... something like 'fifty bucks.' " I looked at Jeremy. "Does that sound right? Fifty?" His brows shot up. "Why are you asking me?" "I wasn't""I just meant, as a general... " I threw up my hands. "How am I supposed to know how much a hooker costs?
... while our men seem thoroughly abreast of the times on almost every other subject, when they strike the woman question they drop back into sixteenth century logic. They leave nothing to be desired generally in regard to gallantry and chivalry, but they actually do not seem sometimes to have outgrown that old contemporary of chivalry--the idea that women may stand on pedestals or live in doll houses,... but they must not furrow their brows with thought or attempt to help men tug at the great questions of the world.
Anna Julia Cooper
I'll get you another red dress.' She wiped the backs of her hands over her cheeks at the snarl. 'You will?' He glared down at her. 'Yes. But you must not cry. I won't get you any dresses if you cry.' 'I don't normally cry.' 'You will never do it.' 'Well, I'm afraid I may sometimes, ' she said apologetically. 'Women need to cry.' Lines formed between his brows. 'How many times in a year?''Maybe five or six, ' she said, thinking about it. 'But really, it's usually a very small cry and not in front of anyone At that, his scowl grew even darker. 'I will permit you to cry four times a year. And you will do it when I am here.
She sat there reading; cool, calm and collected. "You could ruin his life with that information, " her friend reported triumphantly. The woman sighed, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. "If I did he would never forget me, " she replied. "Besides... I don't care enough about his life to concern myself with what he does with it as long as he doesn't concern himself with thoughts of me." Her friend furrowed her brows. "Why?" she asked. The woman set her book down, leaned forward provocatively and said, "Because then I'd have to think of him too.
Donna Lynn Hope
For they imagined as they wished--that it was a wild shot,/ an unintended killing--fools, not to comprehend/ they were already in the grip of death./ But glaring under his brows Odysseus answered: 'You yellow dogs, you thought I'd never make it/ home from the land of Troy. You took my house to plunder,/ twisted my maids to serve your beds. You dared/ bid for my wife while I was still alive./ Contempt was all you had for the gods who rule wide heaven,/ contempt for what men say of you hereafter./ Your last hour has come. You die in blood.
Milk-livered man,That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerningThine honor from thy suffering; [that not know'stFools do those villains pity who are punishedEre they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum?France spreads his banners in our noiseless land,With plumed helm thy state begins to threat,Whilst thou, a moral fool, sits still and cries'Alack, why does he so?']
Stick your dick in'?' I asked, my brows probably touching. 'Did you actually just say that?' 'Make love. I meant make love ... of course. I would never just stick my dick in you. I would make mad, passionate love to this sweet, sweet body of yours for days, no, weeks. It would be beautiful, pumpkin. There'd be little angels, and birdies, and you know ... all just hanging around, watching. Perverts.
He's focused on something-or someone-over her shoulder. The harmonious warbling of the rainforest morphs into organized disarray, as if a primitive maestro has thrown conducting to the wind and let Mother Nature take over. Birds trill a warning as the breeze rustles the plant life. Wings flutter overhead. A crescendo of stridulation changes tempo, the insects seemingly performing a sonata as the rhythm shifts yet again. 'What-who is it?' Summer asks in a strained whisper. His gaze lands on her, his brows furrowing. 'The Forsaken.
Samuel Spade's jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v ofhis mouth. His nostrils curved back to make another, smaller, v. His yellow-grey eyes werehorizontal. The V motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creasesabove a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down--from high flat temples--in a point onhis forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond Satan.
Far be it from me to slow down two badass supermodels on a mission, but we have a problem, " a male voice said wryly. I could see Christian out of the corner of my eye as we turned, his stance and movements almost synchronized to my own. We shared a look, our expressions almost identically similar, wit arched brows and half-smiles. "What's the problem?" I called out, scanning the faces to see who had spoken. "You're a badass supermodel, " Christian muttered under his breath at the same time, taking the mature approach, as usual.
Rebecca K. Lilley
Did you dream of me?" he asked. "Yes," she admitted grudgingly. She had. She'd dreamed of his hands caressing her, of his mouth devouring her. His lush lips inched into a surprised but pleased smile. "You were naked," she told him. His grin spread; his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "And tied up..." He arched his eye brows in smug expectation. "I did not know the idea of bondage would please you." "Oh, I love the idea of typing you up." She paused dramatically. "Just like in my dream, you'll be secured to an ant-hill and the little things will eat you alive.
My father prided himself on maintaining traditions that were hundreds of years old. You'll feel as if you've stepped back into the eighteenth century." Her brows lifted in surprise. He could see the wheels turning in her clever brain, but she chose merely to nod, and perversely, though he knew he would not like it, he wanted to know what she was thinking. "Go on. Say it." "It is nothing. Only - you are very much a man of the nineteenth century." "You mean you're not surprised I left such a backward place." "Such a backward place must be crying out for a man like you." Ainsley pushed her windswept hair out of her eyes.