doyle

Murder was so trivial in the stories Harold loved. Dead bodies were plot points, puzzles to be reasoned out. They weren't brothers. Plot points didn't leave behind grieving sisters who couldn't find their shoes.

Doyle: "What is it now, then?"Cordelia: "Isn't java supposed to be a coffee?"Doyle: "Ready to abandon the the Web project?"Cordelia: "No way. We have a chance here to make contact with the millions of people out there who are glued to their computers."Doyle: "All those millions, shunning human contact. I'll never understand it. Call me old-fashioned, if you like, but I want to interface with a face, not a hunk of plastic and glass."Cordelia: "Climb out of the Dark Ages, Munchkin man."Doyle: "It's leprechaun, and either way, I don't appreciate the insult.

In each of us lie good and bad, light and dark, art and pain, choice and regret, cruelty and sacrifice. We__e each of us our own chiaroscuro, our own bit of illusion fighting to emerge into something solid, something real. We__e got to forgive ourselves that. I must remember to forgive myself. Because there is a lot of grey to work with. No one can live in the light all the time.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Felicity and Ann hunched over their ornaments as if they were fascinating relics from an archaeological dig. I note that their shoulders are trembling, and I realize that they are fighting laughter over my terrible plight. There's friendship for you.

I understand we'll be attending your friend Miss Worthington's Christmas ball. Perhaps I'll find a suitable-- which is to say wealthy-- wife among the ladies attending."And perhaps they will run screaming for the convent.