Oh, well. Everyone else has suave, cosmopolitan sheep: why not us? The Millers at Hepple have a ewe that's been to Kelso three times, and they've never been farther than Ford in their lives." Kate peered absently into the farm pond, and clucked again. "Thoughtless creatures. They've forgotten the fish.
In such novels as This Side of Paradise and The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald depicts the spirit of the hour which is usually about 4 a.m. His suave young men, always commuting between Princeton and The Plaza in Stutz Bearcats never sat still for long. It was too uncomfortable, with a large flask in the hip pocket.
Suave molecules of Mocha stir up your blood, without causing excess heat; the organ of thought receives from it a feeling of sympathy; work becomes easier and you will sit down without distress to your principal repast which will restore your body and afford you a calm, delicious night.
Charles Maurice de Talleyrand
What, no flirting?" I asked, trying to buy time. "Aren't you going to at least try to be sexy? Think of all those vampire fans out there""they'd be so disappointed." I pulled out my silver knife. Probably should have paid more attention during my knife training. "Tell you what. Let me go and I promise not to tell anyone that you aren't suave.
There was an air of indifference about them, a calm produced by the gratification of every passion; and through their manners were suave, one could sense beneath them that special brutality which comes from the habit of breaking down half-hearted resistances that keep one fit and tickle one's vanity""the handling of blooded horses, the pursuit of loose women.
Life is extraordinarily suave and sweet with certain natural, witty, affectionate people who have unusual distinction and are capable of every vice, but who make a display of none in public and about whom no one can affirm they have a single one. There is something supple and secret about them. Besides, their perversity gives spice to their most innocent occupations, such as taking a walk in the garden at night.
I remember reading the book in high school and always thinking of Gatsby as this strong, stoic, suave, mysterious man who had everything under control. But when I read it as an adult, I realised he is a hollow man, a shell of a person trying to find meaning, who is not completely in touch with reality.
I've often wished that I had some suave and socially acceptable hobby that I could fall back on in times like this. You know, play the violin (or was it the viola) like Sherlock Holmes, or maybe twiddle away on the pipe organ like the Disney version of Captain Nemo. But I don't. I'm sort of the arcane equivalent of a classic computer geek. I do magic, in one form or another, and that's pretty much it. I really need to get a life, one of these days
When my hair is curly, I use Suave coconut conditioner. It's not a leave-in, but I use it like one. It is so light and really brings out my hair's curl. A lot of leave-ins are too heavy, but this one is just perfect. When it's straight, I love Frederick Fekkai Tech Shampoo & Conditioner and their Olive Oil glossing cream.
Gavin turned us to face Josh, a satisfied grin springing up when he noticed the condition of Josh's clothes. 'Thanks for the last-minute invitation, man.' Josh chuckled, patting Gavin on the shoulder. 'Shall I do the honors, Mr. Suave?' 'Sure thing, Frodo Baggins. By the way, I hear the Shire has impeccable dinner parties this time of year.' The corners of Gavin's lips twitched and his eyebrows shot up as he gestured to a food stain of some sort near the collar of Josh's white shirt. Josh's chin shot down to follow Gavin's amusement and he quickly tried to wipe away the crumbs. 'Yeah, well ... you know how we hobbits like to eat.
I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde. I like suave 'V' words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve. I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl. I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land's-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid. I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip. I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp.
I am an urchin, standing in the cold, elbowed aside by the glossy rich visitors in their fur coats and ostentatious jewellery, being fussed into the hotel by pompous-looking doormen. 'No problem. I'd better get home, actually Mr - Gustav. A drink is very tempting, but maybe not such a good idea after all.' I pat my pockets. 'And I'm skint.' 'Pavements not paved with gold yet, eh?' He moves on along the facade of the grand hotel to the corner, and waits. He's staring not back at me but down St James Street. I wage a little war with myself. He's a stranger, remember. The newspaper headlines, exaggerated by the time they reach the office of Jake's local rag: Country girl from the sticks raped and murdered in London by suave conman. Even Poppy would be wagging her metaphorical finger at me by now. Blaming herself for not being there, looking out for me. But we're out in public here. Lots of people around us. He's charming. He's incredibly attractive. He's got a lovely deep, well spoken voice. And he's an entrepreneur who must be bloody rich if he owns more than one house. What the hell else am I going to do with myself when everyone else is out having fun? One thing I won't tell him is that my pockets might be empty, but my bank account is full. 'One drink. Then I must get back.' He doesn't answer or protest, but with a courtly bow he crooks his elbow and escorts me down St James. We turn right and into the far more subtle splendour of Dukes Hotel. 'Dress code?' I ask nervously, wiping my feet obediently on the huge but welcoming doormat and drifting ahead of him into the smart interior where domed and glassed corridors lead here and there. The foyer smells of mulled wine and candles and entices you to succumb to its perfumed embrace.
No podea perder a Kisha. Evoco sus labios rosados, tan jugosos y dulces, y la forma en que lo besaban. La suave forma de su rostro, y la manera en que el dorado pelo le caea sobre los hombros, o se desparramaba sobre la almohada cuando le hacea el amor. Los tiernos gemidos que salean por su boca mientras el la acariciaba. Las duras puntas que coronaban sus pechos, y como se arrugaban y se endurecean todavea mas cuando el las lamea. El aroma a verano que siempre la acompae±aba. Su risa, fresca como un amanecer. O la forma en que lo miraba a los ojos, sin miedo, entrege¡ndole el alma con cada suspiro. No podea perderla. El mundo no podea perder a una mujer que a pesar de su condicion de esclava, esperaba lo mejor de los deme¡s. Una mujer que se ganaba a los demas con risas y amabilidad. Una mujer que cuando lo miraba no veea al guerrero, ni al Gobernador, sino al hombre que habea detre¡s, y habea conseguido leerle el alma como si estuviera alli dentro con el. Eso era. Kisha era su alma. Su vida. Su aliento. No podea perderla, porque sin ella no era nada." (Kayen cabalgando de vuelta a Kargul para salvar a Kisha).