欧宝娱乐

“See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
O, that I were a glove upon that hand
That I might touch that cheek!”
― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

“Listen.
Do you see
that you can鈥檛 hear snowfall?
Look.
Do you sense
that you can鈥檛 see love?
Touch.
Do you grasp
that you can鈥檛 catch poems?
Try.
Smell this glass.
Go on taste this cloud.
These material senses won鈥檛 get you far until
you feel
the velvet glove caress your soul.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“Prior preparation is Success divided by half. Once you have fully prepared, every hand glove that obstacles wear to pull you away from reaching your destination will become slippery!”
― Israelmore Ayivor, The Great Hand Book of Quotes

“Leaders are raised through training and experience. Nobody was born naturally with hand-gloves of leadership. We come to life to search for it, discover it and optimize it.”
― Israelmore Ayivor, Leaders' Ladder

“Those who see poverty looking for human slaves to capture, will tell you they saw him holding the handcuffs of laziness.”
― Israelmore Ayivor, Leaders' Ladder

“I won't write or try to see you. You have twelve months to mourn Josiah and decide what you want. You have your bargain. But never imagine for an instant that this is ended. You and I have unfinished business, Grace."
With focused ruthlessness, he lifted her hand and quickly stripped away the glove. She should protest. This moment would just become a bitter memory to taunt her.
When he bent over her hand, his long hair fell forward to hide his face. He pressed his lips to her bare palm and she couldn't stifle a sigh of pleasure. Impossible not to remember nights when he'd kissed each inch of her. Every cell of her skin remembered his possession. Every cell of her skin longed for him to take her again. But it could never be.
Tears blurred her last image of him as he lifted his head and stepped back with a formal bow. How she loved him. She would never love another.
He turned away and at last strode across to Kermonde. He held himself straight and moved with an unhindered confidence she'd never seen in him before. This was a man ready to embrace his challenges. Embrace and conquer.
Only when Kermonde's carriage left in a clatter of hooves and wild cracks of the whip did she realize he'd taken her glove with him.”
― Anna Campbell, Untouched

“Oh, Matthew," she whispered, moved to tears.
"I called it Grace. I hope you don't mind." For the first time, his manner held a hint of shyness, disconcerting in a man who had just made love to her without hesitation or reticence.
Gently, she curled her hand around what was inside the box and lifted it to the light. "It's your rose."
"No, it's your rose."
A heady fragrance filled the air. With one shaking finger, Grace touched a flawless pink petal. The color was unforgettable. It was the most beautiful rose she'd ever seen. Impossible to credit that those unpromising stalks in his courtyard had produced this exquisite bloom.
"It's perfect," she whispered. "It's a miracle."
He was a miracle. How could she not love the man who conjured this beauty with hands and imagination?
The faint smile broadened. Had he worried that she'd reject his gift? Foolish, darling Matthew. The question was whether the rose was a promise of a future or a token of parting.
"I worked on it whenever I could. This last year has been busy."
An understatement, she knew. The Marquess of Sheene had been a ubiquitous presence in London since his release. Everywhere he went, society feted him as a hero. She'd read of the string of honors he'd received, the friendship with the king, the invitations to join scientific boards and societies.
Echoing her gesture, he reached out to touch the petals. The sensitivity of his fingers on the flower reminded her of his hands on her skin.
"I did most of the basic experiments when I was a prisoner, but I couldn't get it right." He glanced up with an expression that combined pride and diffidence in a breathtakingly attractive mixture. "This is the first bud, Grace. It appeared almost a year to the day after I promised to wait. It seemed a sign."
"And you brought it to me," she said softly, staring at the flower. The anniversary of his release didn't occur for two more days. That date was etched on her longing heart.
Then she noticed something else.
"My glove," she said blankly. With unsteady hands, she reached in and withdrew a light green kidskin glove from a recess carved away from the damp. The buttery leather was crushed and worn from incessant handling. "Have you kept it all this time?"
"Of course." He wasn't smiling anymore and his eyes deepened to a rich, rare gold. Beautiful, unwavering, somber.
"You make me want to cry." Her voice emerged so thickly, she didn't sound like herself.
She laid the box on the bench and tightened her grip on the soft leather until her knuckles whitened. What was he trying to tell her? What did the rose mean? The glove?
Had he carried her glove into his new life like a knight wore his lady's favor into battle? The thought sent choking emotion to her throat.”
― Anna Campbell, Untouched

“a seed and a glove, symbol of his action and his work. (une graine et un gant, symbole de son action et son travail.)”
― Charles de Leusse, Les Contes de la nuit

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“What鈥檚 in a glove? And for that matter, where might a glove have been, or gone, and to what future did all these worn-out pieces of leather, stitched together with the precision of shotgun blast, have awaiting them?”
― Chris Baldwin, Stand on the Bench, Achilles

“Good ink, good parchment, precious time - and all for the sake of a mouse in a glove.鈥�
Cian Brydydd Mawr smiled tenderly at him.
鈥淢aybe one day, Iago ap Rhys, in a world you cannot imagine, people will thank you for a mouse in a glove.”
― Hugh Lupton, The Assembly of the Severed Head