Greenall Palm Quotes

When Captain Moresby landed on New Guinea, a medicine-man exorcised the evil spirit in him by magical jugglery with palm leaves and by playing a kind of leapfrog. ~ Elsie Clews Parsons

The law provides expert diagnosis of our sin problem, which is absolutely essential. But the law does not provide the cure to our sin problem. Only Jesus can save us from our sin problem. ~ John Paul Warren

She pulls away - and then I see why: she's holding out her palm as a landing place for a firefly. It's easy to forget it's there when it's not glowing, until all of a sudden it comes back and surprises you; it reminds you of grief. ~ Adam Silvera

I could look at you forever," he admitted roughly as the gown joined her wrapper on the floor.
"Looking is very good," she replied, kicking the garments aside with a flick of a slender foot. "But I would much rather you touch."
There was no artifice in her tone, no knowingly seductive tones-only an honesty that shook him to his soul.
He picked her up and carried her the few steps to his bed. He placed her naked body on the sheets and stood back. He took his time studying the lush splendor of her as he opened his trousers and pushed them over his hips and thighs. When he straightened, the full length of his arousal jutted in front of him, revealed to her bright gaze as her nakedness was to his.
"Are all men as beautiful as you are naked?" she asked with a hint of a smile.
Grey grinned back. "No," he replied. "I am an exceptional specimen of manly perfection-how the hell should i know what other men look like naked?"
Rose shrugged as she chuckled. "You stand a better chance of knowing than I would."
He climbed on the bed, easing his body onto the sheets beside her. "I cannot tell you. All I know is that I've never seen a woman as beautiful as you." He kissed the tip of her adorable nose as he placed his palm on the gentle curve of her stomach.
Soft pink suffused her cheeks. "You lie."
He shook his head, solemn as the grave. "Not about this." And then he kissed her again, because he didn't want to risk ruining the moment with silly ch ~ Kathryn Smith

Fig leaned in close, his chest pressed to her back, his palm flat on her belly. "Time to muster up some moxie, Roxie," he whispered. "Every woman in this bar is wishing she had a body as gorgeous as yours, and every man is wishing he had your long, beautiful legs clamped around his butt."
Roxie relaxed. Smiled even. "Does that include you?" [...]
"Nah." [...] "My wish involves them wrapped around my head. ~ Wendy S. Marcus

If he hadn't been my father I would have loved the spectacle he created-one performance following quickly upon another-like a versatile old vaudevil-lian with his audience (wife and children) in the palm of his hand. ~ Maureen Howard

Nope," she managed. "No other questions."
Eleven centuries of captivity. Hung on his hated enemy's study wall. Eleven centuries of not touching. Not eating. Not loving. Had he had anyone to talk
to?
Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for he startled her by saying softly, " 'Tis no longer of
consequence, lass, but thank you for the compassion. 'Tis nigh over. Seventeen more days, Jessica. That's all."
For some reason his words brought a sudden hot burn of tears to the backs of her eyes. Not only hadn't eleven centuries turned him into a monster, he was trying to soothe her, to make her feel better about his imprisonment.
"You weep for me, woman?"
She turned away. "It's been a long day. Hell, it's been a long week."
"Jessica." Her name was a soft command.
She disobeyed it, staring out the window at the rolling hills.
"Jessica, look at me."
Eyes bright with unshed tears, she whipped her head around and glared at him. "I weep for you, okay?" she snapped. "For eleven centuries stuck in there. Can I start driving again or do you need something else?"
He smiled faintly, raised his hand, and splayed his palm against the inside of the silvery glass. Without an ounce of conscious thought, her hand rose to
meet his, aligning on the cool silver,
palm to palm, finger to finger, thumb to thumb. And though she felt only a cold hardness beneath her palm, the gesture made something go all warm and soft in her heart.< ~ Karen Marie Moning

Cinder's tirade ceased and she gaped at Scarlet. Between them, Thorne settled his chin on his palm as if watching a great show - though his free hand still held the shotgun aimed at Wolf's head. ~ Marissa Meyer

They don't, in some people; those unlucky enough never to change in themselves, but there are few like that." She gave my folded hand a squeeze and patted it. "I doubt that you're one of those. Your hand shows quite a lot of change already, for one so young. That would likely be the War, of course," she said, as though to herself. I was curious again, and opened my palm voluntarily. "What am I, then, according to my hand?" Mrs. Graham frowned, but did not pick up my hand again. "I canna just say. It's odd, for most hands have a likeness to them. Mind, I'd no just say that it's 'see one, you've seen them all,' but it's often like that - there are patterns, you know." She smiled suddenly, an oddly engaging grin, displaying very white and patently false teeth. ~ Diana Gabaldon

Will you think about the kissing?" he asks, and I laugh again and mimic his shrug. If only he knew how much I think about the kissing. "Will you reconsider hand-holding?" he asks, instead of answering, I move my arm so it's next to his, so we are lined up, seam to seam. He reaches out his pinky finger and links it around mine and a warm, delicious chill makes its way up my arm. We stay that way for a minute, in a pinky swear, which feels like the smallest of promises. And then I grab his whole hand and link his fingers in mine. A slightly bigger promise. Or maybe a demand: Please be part of my tribe. It's pretty simple, really. For once, things are not complicated. Right now, right here, it's just us, together, like this. Palm to palm. The most honest of gestures. One of the ways through. Maybe the best one. ~ Julie Buxbaum

And these few precepts in thy memory
Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar but by no means vulgar.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel,
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. ~ William Shakespeare

It takes me a while to drag him out, he's got himself stuck to the axle, and by the time I am done and stand over the body something strange has started to happen. The alley's filled with a half-dozen cats, runty little things with their ribs showing and their tails worn high like they're pointing to the moon. I stand there, breathing froth into the snowflakes and watch them gather round me, soft kitty paws, and now and then a patrol car rolls past in the distance. The cats are circling us, tails cocked at the moon, their muzzles bloodied by the tail lights' glow. They are vicious bastards, let me tell you: frost on their whiskers, eyes like cut glass, a half-dozen pairs, on me and the dead man. And then they start licking. Licking at the snow I mean, the blood in the snow, they lap it up like mother's milk. And all the while from their throats, from their whole bodies, there issues this sound, you hear it with your skin, it's like an engine running under your palm. That's when I realize they are purring, man, purring as they feed on the midget's death. ~ Dan Vyleta

Night had fallen on Manta by the time we awoke and a cooling breeze was rustling the palm fronds of the tree outside our window. We could hear laughter below as the nightlife of Manta got underway. Girls dressed for clubbing were leaving the hotel hoping to have their world rocked after a night of dancing and wake up to discover he really was Prince Charming in disguise. In truth he would be the tatted-up, dumbed-down, self-involved bad-boy they'd been drawn to like a moth to a flame after several drinks, because he was the male mirror-image of them. The tap-tap of high-heeled shoes designed to accentuate the girls' derrieres sounded like an ancient tribal mating song being drummed out on concrete. ~ Bobby Underwood

What?" I yelled. And I opened my mouth to complain Nobody told me anything, but I recalled a certain interview, not long ago, that had ended rather abruptly when a candleholder had--ah--changed hands. Grimacing, I said in a more normal voice, "When did this happen?"
"That's the joke on us." Bran laughed. "They've been at it as long as we have. Longer, even."
I looked from father to son and read nothing in those bland, polite faces. "Then…why…didn't you respond to our letter?"
As I spoke the words, a lot of things started making sense.
I thought back to what Ara's father had said, and then I remembered Shevraeth's words about the purpose of a court. When I glanced at Prince Alaerec, he saluted me with his wineglass; just a little gesture, but I read in it that he had comprehended a good deal of my thoughts.
Which meant that my face, as usual, gave me away--and of course this thought made my cheeks burn.
He said, "We admire--tremendously--your courageous efforts to right the egregious wrongs obtaining in Remalna."
Thinking again of Ara's father and Master Kepruid the innkeeper, I said, "But the people don't welcome armies trampling through their houses and land, even armies on their side. I take it you've figured out some miraculous way around this?"
Bran slapped his palm down on the table. "That's it, Mel--where we've been blind. We were trying to push our way in from without, but Shevraeth, here, has been working from within." He nodded ~ Sherwood Smith

Give me the gun." Michael put a hand out, his voice soft.
Tension rode on the sunlight as she listened to Hunter's breathing shake.
"It's okay," said Michael. "You don't want to do this."
Inch by inch, Hunter lowered the gun into Michael's palm, finally letting go.
Michael didn't move. "You alright?"
Hunter nodded.
"Good." Michael wrapped his hand around the hilt.
Then he lifted it, cocked the hammer, and put the barrel against Hunter's forehead. "Now where the f*** are my brothers? ~ Brigid Kemmerer

It's up to you." He reached across the front seat and grabbed her hand. "It's always up to you." He drew her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss into her palm. ~ Robyn Carr

But the Bible says it's wrong." The nail dug into Isaac's palm as he squeezed it. David sighed. "I know. When I try to make sense of things, I always end up there. But isn't the Bible only more words?" "Holy words, though!" Isaac sputtered. "We know everything in the Bible is true." "Do we? It was written by men, wasn't it? If it's all true, then why don't men sell their daughters into slavery anymore? It's in the Bible. So is being able to buy slaves as long as they're foreigners. ~ Keira Andrews

I think of thee!-my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree ...
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better! ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning

A hedgehog flies from the safety of a bush, startling me. It darts past us in a terrible hurry. Kartik nods toward the furry little thing. "Don't mind him. He's off to meet his lady friend."
"How can you be sure?"
"He has on his best hedgehog suit."
"Ah, I should have noticed." I say, happy to be playing this game-any game-with him. I put my hand on the tree's trunk and swing myself around it slowly, letting my body feel gravity's pull. "And why has he worn his best?"
"He's been away in London, you see, and now he has returned to her," Kartik continues.
"And what if she is angry with him for being away so long?"
Kartik circles just behind me. "She will forgive him."
"Will she?" I say pointedly.
"It is his hope that she will, for he didn't mean to upset her." Kartik answers, and I am no longer sure we speak of the hedgehog.
"And is he happy to see her again?"
"Yes," Kartik says. "He should like to stay longer, but he cannot."
The bark chafes against my hand. "Why is that?"
"He has his reasons, and hopes his lady will understand them one day." Kartik has changed direction. He comes around the other side of the tree. We are face to face. A palm of moonglow reaches through the branches to caress his face.
"Oh," I say, heart beating fast.
"And what would the lady hedgehog say to that?" he asks. His voice soft and low.
"She would say..." I swallow hard.
Kartik steps closer. "Yes?"
"She would say," ~ Libba Bray

I shake his hand, and feel the jolt of electricity again from him. He laughs and raises his hand to show me the joy-buzzer in his palm. ~ Andrew Shaffer

To make this sign, the first and little fingers are upraised and the other fingers folded in towards the palm. This was a secret sign used for recognition purposes by followers of the medieval witch cult who were traditionally worshippers of the pagan Horned God. ~ Paul Rhys Mountfort

You hold the key to my heart,
and my love in your palm,
so make sure that you use it,
and then our love can start. ~ Anthony T. Hincks

I flexed my wrist, popped a silver needle into my palm, and offered it to him.
'What's this?'
'A needle.'
'What should I do with it?'
He'd walked right into it. Too easy. 'Please use it to pop your head. It's obscuring my view of the room.'
- Kate & Saiman ~ Ilona Andrews

He folded his fear into a perfect rose. He held it out in the palm of his hand. She took it from him and put it in her hair. ~ Arundhati Roy

The scene is a writer's study, shabby, drafty but tax-deductible. The writer is reading the last hundred pages of his work in progress. For the past fifty or so, a kind of slow terror has been rising in his breast. All these pages had seemed necessary. They contain many good things. Ironies. Insights. And yet they seem to have a certain ineffable unsatisfactoriness. There is a word to describe this quality, the writer thinks, a horrible word. The B word. He begins to strike his forehead with a sweaty palm. ~ Robert Stone

My favorite thing to do in L.A. is to be in a car with friends listening to music. The perfect time is twilight, when the setting sun is filtering through the palm trees. Back in the day, we'd be listening to the Vandals, X, or Farside. Now it would be L.A.-based bands like Dum Dum Girls, Foxygen, or Ty Segall. ~ Liz Goldwyn

Thomas reached out and took my hand, turned it palm up, and said, "I believe that's healing very nicely." Aunt Charlotte opened the door just as he turned my hand over again and brushed a kiss across my knuckles. I experienced a nearly overpowering desire to hit him in the eye. ~ Caroline Stevermer

Sometimes I get lost in the rhythm of the paddling. I even count the strokes it takes to get me to a point of land, The play of the muscles in one's arms and shoulders, and the feel of palm against worn wood, are preferable to glancing at a speedometer ~ Richard Proenneke

To feel sabi is to feel keenly one's own sharp and particular existence amid its own impermanence, and to value the singular moment as William Blake did "infinity in the palm of your hand" - to feel it precise and almost-weightless as a sand grain, yet also vast. ~ Jane Hirshfield

How can a three-pound mass of jelly that you can hold in your palm imagine angels, contemplate the meaning of infinity, and even question its own place in the cosmos? Especially awe inspiring is the fact that any single brain, including yours, is made up of atoms that were forged in the hearts of countless, far-flung stars billions of years ago. These particles drifted for eons and light-years until gravity and change brought them together here, now. These atoms now form a conglomerate- your brain- that can not only ponder the very stars that gave it birth but can also think about its own ability to think and wonder about its own ability to wonder. With the arrival of humans, it has been said, the universe has suddenly become conscious of itself. This, truly, it the greatest mystery of all. ~ V.S. Ramachandran

Even though it was January, in Los Angeles it was beautiful and sunny and the blue skies were out and it was hot everyday, so I think it was just a product of our environment. And California to me as a concept or as an idea always seems like endless optimism and endless opportunity - when people think of California they think of palm trees and blue skies and gorgeous sunsets and beaches and everything else. But there's also this weirdness to California, this darkness, it's a place where people come to follow their dreams and sometimes don't make it. ~ Mark Hoppus

The door creaked as it began to open.
Gray moved like lightning, slapping his left palm against the door and slamming it shut before it had
opened more than a fraction of an inch. "Hey!" a woman squawked indignantly from the other side.
"This one's occupied," he said hoarsely, not missing a beat with his plunging hips. "Go somewhere else."
Faith couldn't say anything. Her eyes widened with alarm, but all she could do was look helplessly up at
him.
Gray's lips drew back over his teeth and his head dropped forward as he began hammering faster. His
face was flushed, satisfaction only a few moments away.
Faith shuddered wildly as the coil of tension suddenly released and the fierce, pulsing flood of sensation
swept through her. Shivering and pushing hard against him, she buried her face against his chest and bit
his shirt to muffle her gasping cries.
He kept his hand flat against the door, gripping her bottom with his right hand to anchor himself. He
shoved hard into her, twice, three times, again, then bucked violently. His head fell back and a harsh,
guttural cry rumbled up from his chest.
There was an insistent banging on the door. "What are you doing in there?" the woman said in shrill,
grating tones. "That's the lady's room! You aren't supposed to be in there!"
Slowly Gray's head came up. The expression in his eyes was indescribable, as if he couldn't believe
what was happening. He took a de ~ Linda Howard

Its at night, when perhaps we should be dreaming, that the mind is most clear, that we are most able to hold all our life in the palm of our skull. I dont know if anyone has ever pointed out that great attraction of insomnia before, but it is so; the night seems to release a little more of our vast backward inheritance of instincts and feelings; as with the dawn, a little honey is allowed to ooze between the lips of the sandwich, a little of the stuff of dreams to drip into the waking mind. ~ Brian Aldiss

He got into the van and opened the window to wave, and then, as it revved up and pulled away, his lips touched the palm of his hand and he blew me a kiss, something he hasn't done since he was a child. It was as if on the edge of manhood he, too, remembered everything we had shared, that he was the man who was still, in his heart, my little boy, late for school. ~ Jennifer Ryan

When, with a smile, she let the dirt slip slowly across her curled palm and out the side of her hand onto the coffin, the gesture looked like the prelude to a carnal act. Clearly this was a man to whom she'd once given much thought. ~ Philip Roth

Even when I had nothing left to give, he still had me in the palm of his hand. ~ Jack Jordan

Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone,
But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown. ~ Rudyard Kipling

He stroked the filly's neck, and she sniffed at the pouch on his belt, then turned her head away.
"She wants to let me know she doesn't care that I've apples in here.No, doesn't matter a bit to her." He looped the line around the fence and took an apple and his knife from his pocket. Idly he cut it in half. "Maybe I'll just offer this token to this other pretty lady here."
He held out the apple to Keeley, and Betty gave him a solid rap with her head that rammed him into the fence. "Now she wants my attention. Would you like some of this then?"
He shifted, held the apple out. Betty nipped it from his palm with dignified delicacy. "She loves me."
"She loves your apples," Keeley commented.
"Oh,it's not just that. See here." Before Keeley could evade-could think to-he cupped a hand at the back of her neck, pulled her close and rubbed his lips provocatively over hers.
Betty huffed out a breath and butted him.
"You see?" Brian let his teeth graze lightly before he released Keeley. "Jealous.She doesn't care to have me give affection to another woman."
"Next time kiss her and save yourself a bruise."
"It was worth it.On both counts."
"Horses are more easily charmed than women, Donnelly." She plucked the apple out of his hand, bit in. "I just like your apples," she told him, and strolled away.
"That one's as contrary as you are." He nuzzled Betty's cheek as he watched Keeley walk to her stables. "What is it that makes me find c ~ Nora Roberts

God, she was beautiful - my first image of the Orient - a woman such as only the desert poet knew how to praise: her face was the sun, her hair the protecting shadow, her eyes fountains of cool water, her body the most slender of palm-trees and her smile a mirage. ~ Amin Maalouf

Rich Palm Beach clients all wanted the same kind of different thing. ~ Billy Baldwin

There were, in Feo's experience, five kinds of cold. There was wind cold, which Feo barely felt. It was fussy and loud and turned your cheeks as red as if you'd been slapped, but couldn't kill you even if it tried. There was snow cold, which plucked at your arms and chapped your lips, but brought real rewards. It was Feo's favorite weather: The snow was soft and good for making snow wolves. There was ice cold, which might take the skin off your palm if you let it, but probably wouldn't if you were careful. Ice cold smelled sharp and knowing. It often came with blue skies and was good for skating. Feo had respect for ice cold. Then there was hard cold, which was when the ice cold got deeper and deeper until at the end of a month you couldn't remember if the summer had ever really existed. Hard cold could be cruel. Birds died in midflight. It was the kind of cold that you booted and kicked your way through.
And then there was blind cold. Blind cold smelled of metal and granite. It took all the sense out of your brain and blew the snow into your eyes until they were glued shut and you had to rub spit into them before they would blink. Blind cold was forty degrees below zero. This was the kind of cold that you didn't sit down to think in, unless you wanted to be found dead in the same place in May or June.
Feo had felt blind cold only once. ~ Katherine Rundell

She may hear this story, someday, and wonder what it has to do with her. A girl hiding her scared in her prettiness, an unwanted baby, a dead mother. These are not her heartbreaks. Every heart is fractured differently and she knows the pattern of her cracks, she traces them like lines across her palm. She has a living mother and besides, she was always wanted. Prayed for, even. Now she's grown, or at least she thinks she is. But she hasn't yet learned from the mathematics of grief. The weight of what has been lost is always heavier than what remains. She's heard her granddaddy preach about the good shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine behind in search of the one lost sheep.
But what about the flock he abandons? she wonders. Aren't they lost now too? ~ Brit Bennett

I cherish the memory of being a friend of Frank Sinatra on a friendship level to the point where we really hung out. We worked in Vegas, we'd talk on the phone, and if I wasn't doing anything, I'd fly out, and I spent time in Palm Springs at his house - on a level the way friends would be, not with a whole crowd of people. ~ Frankie Valli