#tessa-gray

"Trains are great dirty smoky things,"said Will. "You won't like it."Tessa was unmoved. "I won't know if I like it until I try it, will I?""I've never swum naked in the Thames before, but I know I wouldn't like it.""But think how entertaining for sightseers,"said Tessa, and she saw Jem duck his head to hide the quick flash of his grin."

"I thought perhaps that when you told me you did not love me that my own feelings would fall away and atrophy, but they have not. They have grown every day. I love you now more desperately, this moment, than I have ever loved you before, and in an hour I will love you more than that"

"One does no question miracles, or complain that they are no constructed perfectly to one's liking."

"You know that feeling,” she said, “when you are reading a book, and you know that it is going to be a tragedy; you can feel the cold and darkness coming, see the net drawing tight around the characters who live and breathe on the pages. But you are tied to the story as if being dragged behind a carriage and you cannot let go or turn the course aside."

"And to the devil with it if she is!"said the Consul. "One girl, who is not Nephilim, is not, cannot, be our priority.""She is my priority!"Will shouted."

"They’re not hideous,” said Tessa. Will blinked at her. “What?” “Gideon and Gabriel,” said Tessa. “They’re really quite good-looking, not hideous at all.” “I spoke,” said Will, in sepulchral tones, “of the pitch-black inner depths of their souls.” Tessa snorted. “And what color do you suppose the inner depths of your soul are, Will Herondale?” “Mauve,” said Will."

"Let me give you a piece of advice. The handsome young fellow who's trying to rescue you from a hideous fate is never wrong. Not even if he says the sky is purple and made of hedgehogs."

"If no one in the entire world cared about you, did you really exist at all?"

"But you hate poetry!Yes, but you make me want to write it."

"She leaned forward and caught at his hand, pressing it between her own. The touch was like white fire through his veins. He could not feel her skin only the cloth of her gloves, and yet it did not matter. You kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire. He had wondered once why love was always phrased in terms of burning. The conflagration in his own veins, now, gave the answer."

"Men may be stronger, but it is women who endure."