"This did not seem to reassure Nico. "I don't like being in the dark," he muttered. An odd complaint for a child of Hades, but I understood what he meant."
"I believe in reincarnation," [Bjorn] said. I KNOW. "I tried to live a good life. Does that help?" THAT'S NOT UP TO ME. Death coughed. OF COURSE... SINCE YOU BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION... YOU'LL BE BJORN AGAIN."
But the helmet had gold decoration, and the bespoke armorers had made a new gleaming breastplate with useless gold ornamentation on it. Sam Vimes felt like a class traitor every time he wore it. He hated being thought of as one of those people that wore stupid ornamental armor. It was gilt by association.
And he won her freedom by playing beautiful music,' Roland added. 'I think he played a lute. Or maybe it was a lyre.' 'Ach, weel, that'll suit us fine,' said Daft Wullie. 'We're experts at lootin' an' then lyin' aboot it.
"Xingu!" she scoffed. "Why, it was the fact of our knowing so much more about it than she did--unprepared though we were--that made Osric Dane so furious. I should have thought that was plain enough to everybody!"
"Well, land sakes!" Hiro says. "Lookee here!" He whips his blade sideways, cutting off both of the businessman's forearms, causing the sword to clatter onto the floor. "Better fire up the ol' barbeque, Jemima!" Hiro continues, whipping the sword around sideways, cutting the businessman's body in half just above the navel. Then he leans down so he's looking right into the businessman's face. "Didn't anyone tell you," he says, losing the dialect, "that I was a hacker?" Then he hacks the guy's head off."
"One of Lucy's admirers took to her, apparently." "Took to her?" echoes William, his own feelings for Sugar causing him to construe the phrase benignly. "Yes," said Bodley "With her own riding crop." "Beat her very severely." "Particularly about the face and mouth." "I understand all the fight's gone out of her now." "Well, as you can imagine," he says. "Madam Georgina doesn't have high hopes. Even if she's willing to wait, there will be scars." Ashwell, eyes downcast, is picking at the lint on his trousers. "Poor girl," he laments. "Yes," smirks Bodley. "How are the fighty maulen."