Best 43 quotes in «daisy quotes» category

This week has had a strange effect on me,” Llandrindon ruminated aloud. “I feel… different.” “Are you ill?” Daisy asked in concern, closing the sketchbook. “I’m sorry, I’ve made you sit out in the sun too long.” “No, not that kind of different. What I meant to say is that I feel… wonderful.” Llandrindon was staring at her in that odd way again. “Better than I ever have before.” “It’s the country air, I expect.” Daisy stood and brushed her skirts off, and went to him. “It’s quite invigorating.” “It’s not the country air I find invigorating,” Llandrindon said in a low voice. “It’s you, Miss Bowman.” Daisy’s mouth fell open. “Me?” “You.” He stood and took her shoulders in his hands. Daisy could only stutter in surprise. “I— I— my lord—” “These past few days in your company have given me cause for deep reflection.” Daisy twisted to glance at their surroundings, taking in the neatly trimmed hedges covered with bursts of pink climbing roses. “Is Mr. Swift nearby?” she whispered. “Is that why you’re talking this way?” “No, I’m speaking for myself.” Ardently Llandrindon pulled her closer, until the sketchbook was nearly crushed between them. “You’ve opened my eyes, Miss Bowman. You’ve made me see everything a different way. I want to find shapes in clouds, and do something worth writing a poem about. I want to read novels. I want to make life an adventure—” “How nice,” Daisy said, wriggling in his tightening grasp. “— with you.” Oh no. “You’re joking,” she said weakly. “I’m besotted,” he declared. “I’m unavailable.” “I’m determined.” “I’m… surprised.” “You dear little thing,” he exclaimed. “You’re everything he said you were. Magic. Thunderstorms wrapped up with rainbows. Clever and lovely and desirable—” “Wait.” Daisy stared at him in astonishment. “Matth— that is, Mr. Swift said that?” “Yes, yes, yes…” And before she could move, speak or breathe, Llandrindon lowered his head and kissed her.

They came to a tall juniper hedge beyond which extended a flagstoned walkway that bordered the side of the manor. As they made their way to an opening of the hedge, they heard a pair of masculine voices engaged in conversation. The voices were not loud. In fact, the strictly moderated volume of the conversation betrayed that something secret— and therefore intriguing— was being discussed. Pausing behind the hedge, Daisy motioned for Evie to be still and quiet. “… doesn’t promise to be much of a breeder…” one of them was saying. The comment was met with a low but indignant objection. “Timid? Holy hell, the woman has enough spirit to climb Mont-Blanc with a pen-knife and a ball of twine. Her children will be perfect hellions.” Daisy and Evie stared at each other with mutual astonishment. Both voices were easily recognizable as those belonging to Lord Llandrindon and Matthew Swift. “Really,” Llandrindon said skeptically. “My impression is that she is a literary-minded girl. Rather a bluestocking.” “Yes, she loves books. She also happens to love adventure. She has a remarkable imagination accompanied by a passionate enthusiasm for life and an iron constitution. You’re not going to find a girl her equal on your side of the Atlantic or mine.” “I had no intention of looking on your side,” Llandrindon said dryly. “English girls possess all the traits I would desire in a wife.” They were talking about her, Daisy realized, her mouth dropping open. She was torn between delight at Matthew Swift’s description of her, and indignation that he was trying to sell her to Llandrindon as if she were a bottle of patent medicine from a street vendor’s cart. “I require a wife who is poised,” Llandrindon continued, “sheltered, restful…” “Restful? What about natural and intelligent? What about a girl with the confidence to be herself rather than trying to imitate some pallid ideal of subservient womanhood?” “I have a question,” Llandrindon said. “Yes?” “If she’s so bloody remarkable, why don’t you marry her?” Daisy held her breath, straining to hear Swift’s reply. To her supreme frustration his voice was muffled by the filter of the hedges. “Drat,” she muttered and made to follow them. Evie yanked her back behind the hedge. “No,” she whispered sharply. “Don’t test our luck, Daisy. It was a miracle they didn’t realize we were here.” “But I wanted to hear the rest of it!” “So did I.” They stared at each other with round eyes. “Daisy…” Evie said in wonder, “… I think Matthew Swift is in love with you.

These flowers are starwort," she said. "Starwort means 'welcome.' By giving you a bouquet of starwort, I'm welcoming you to my home, to my life." She twirled buttery pasta on her fork and looked into my eyes without a glimmer of humor. "They look like daisies to me," I said. "And I still think they're poisonous." "They aren't poisonous, and they aren't daisies. See how they only have five petals but it looks like they have ten? Each pair of petals is connected in the center." Picking up the small bouquet of flowers, I examined the little white bundle. The petals grew together before attaching to the stem, so that each petal was the shape of a heart. "That's a characteristic of the genus 'Stellaria,'" Elizabeth went on, when she could see that I understood. "Daisy is a common name, and spans many different families, but the flowers we call daisies typically have more petals, and each petal grows separate from the others. It's important to know the difference or you may confuse the meaning. Daisy means 'innocence', which is a very different sentiment than 'welcome.

When one felt like a wasp, one’s main inclination was to sting.

What aren’t coming regularly?” Daisy asked with forced cheer, coming into the room. “And why are you watching the—” She blanched as she suddenly understood. “My God. Are you having birthing pains, Lillian?” Her sister shook her head, looking perplexed. “Not full-on pains. Just a sort of tightening of my stomach. It started after lunchtime, and then I had one an hour later, and then a half-hour later, and this one came after twenty minutes.” “Does Westcliff know?” Daisy asked breathlessly. “Should I go tell him?” “No,” all three of the other women said at once. “There’s no need to worry him yet,” Lillian added in a sheepish tone. “Let Westcliff enjoy the afternoon with his friends. As soon as he finds out, he’ll be up here pacing and giving commands, and no one will have any peace. Especially me.” “What about Mother? Shall I fetch her?” Daisy had to ask, even though she was certain of the answer. Mercedes was not a comforting sort of person, and despite the fact that she had given birth to five children, she was squeamish at the mention of any kind of bodily function. “I’m in enough pain already,” Lillian said dryly.

What happened?” Lillian asked as Daisy walked into the Marsden parlor. She was reclining on the settee with a periodical. “You look as if you’ve been run over by a carriage.” “I had an encounter with an ill-mannered pig, actually.

A shopgirl dressed in finery, speaking in cockney... it's like fingernails on slate." "Yes," Llandrindon said with a laugh. "Or like seeing a common daisy stuck in a bouquet of roses." The comment was unthinking, of course. There was a sudden silence as Llandrindon realized he had just inadvertently insulted Bowman's daughter, or rather the name of his daughter. "A versatile flower, the daisy," Matthew commented, breaking the silence. "Lovely in its freshness and simplicity. I've always thought it went well with any kind of arrangement." The entire group rumbled in immediate agreement- "Indeed," and "Quite so.

When the two men finally appeared in the dining hall after having washed and changed from the journey, Daisy’s heart pounded too fast to allow for a full breath. Matthew’s glance swept the company at large, and he bowed as Westcliff did. Both of them appeared collected and remarkably fresh. One would think they had been absent for seven minutes instead of seven days. Before going to his place at the head of the table, Westcliff went to Lillian. Since the earl was never given to public demonstrations, it astonished everyone, including Lillian, when he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her full on the mouth. She flushed and said something about the vicar being there, making Westcliff laugh.

A daisy blooming in a desert is worth more than a rose blossoming in a rainforest.

A place where a clock's minute and hour hands spread away from its face, flapping like wings. A place where he'd pluck a daisy and watch the petals whirl like the propellers of a helicopter. Where he'd throw a handful of sand, and the grains would buzz away like a swarm of gnats. Where colorful fruits on a tree would burst into flight, and new ones would perch in their place.

Are you saying I’m better than a sword to the eye?” I ask, and he chuckles. The sound is warm and soft, and I swear I can feel it, dancing over the knobs of my spine. Oh my god, this rain needs to end soon. “Maybe not better, but certainly not worse,

A rose would be miserable if it was forced to be a daisy, no matter how much water it was fed.

All this effort for a man who doesn’t even care,” Daisy muttered to herself, thinking dire thoughts about Matthew Swift. Llandrindon sat a few yards away on the rim of a garden fountain, obediently holding still as she sketched his portrait. She had never been particularly talented at sketching, but she was running out of things to do with him. “What was that?” the Scottish lord called out. “I said you have a fine head of hair!

As the four young women proceeded to a hallway leading toward the morning room, they encountered Lord St. Vincent, who was strolling in the opposite direction. Elegant and dazzling in his formal clothes, he paused and regarded Evie with a caressing smile. “You appear to be escaping from something,” he remarked. “We are,” Evie told her husband. St. Vincent slid his arm around Evie’s waist and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Where are you going?” Evie thought for a moment. “Somewhere to powder Daisy’s nose.” The viscount gave Daisy a dubious glance. “It takes all four of you? But it’s such a little nose.” “We’ll only be a few minutes, my lord,” Evie said. “Will you make excuses for us?” St. Vincent laughed gently. “I have an endless supply, my love,” he assured her.

Becoming aware of her presence in the doorway, the men looked up. Westcliff rose from his half-seated position on the desk. “My lord,” Daisy said, “if I might have a word with you?” Although she spoke calmly, something in her expression must have alerted him. He didn’t waste a second in coming to her. “Yes, Daisy?” “It’s about my sister,” she whispered. “It seems her labor has started.” She had never seen the earl look so utterly taken aback. “It’s too early,” he said. “Apparently the baby doesn’t think so.” “But…this is off-schedule.” The earl seemed genuinely baffled that his child would have failed to consult the calendar before arriving. “Not necessarily,” Daisy replied reasonably. “It’s possible the doctor misjudged the date of the baby’s birth. Ultimately it’s only a matter of guesswork.” Westcliff scowled. “I expected far more accuracy than this! It’s nearly a month before the projected…” A new thought occurred to him, and he turned skull-white. “Is the baby premature?” Although Daisy had entertained a few private concerns about that, she shook her head immediately. “Some women show more than others, some less. And my sister is very slender. I’m sure the baby is fine.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “Lillian has had pains for the past four or five hours, and now they’re coming every ten minutes or so, which Annabelle says—” “She’s been in labor for hours and no one told me?” Westcliff demanded in outrage. “Well, it’s not technically labor unless the intervals between the pains are regular, and she said she didn’t want to bother you until—” Westcliff let out a curse that startled Daisy. He turned to point a commanding but unsteady finger at Simon Hunt. “Doctor,” he barked, and took off at a dead run. Simon Hunt appeared unsurprised by Westcliff’s primitive behavior. “Poor fellow,” he said with a slight smile, reaching over the desk to slide a pen back into its holder.

Behold the azure sea in front of you, the turquoise sky above you, the amber mountain beneath your feet, and the golden daisy in your hands. How are you not the richest person on earth?

Daisies that bring you joy are better than roses that bring you sorrow.

Cooing to the baby, Daisy entered the room. Lillian was resting against a stack of pillows, her eyes closed. She looked very small in the large bed, her hair braided in two plaits like a young girl’s. Westcliff was at her side, looking like he had just fought Waterloo singlehandedly. The veterinarian was at the washstand, soaping his hands. He threw Daisy a friendly smile, and she grinned back at him. “Congratulations, Mr. Merritt,” she said. “It seems you’ve added a new species to your repertoire.” Lillian stirred at the sound of her voice. “Daisy?” Daisy approached with the baby in her arms. “Oh, Lillian, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Her sister grinned sleepily. “I think so too. Would you—” she broke off to yawn. “Show her to Mother and Father?” “Yes, of course. What is her name?” “Merritt.” “You’re naming her after the veterinarian?” “He proved to be quite helpful,” Lillian replied. “And Westcliff said I could.” The earl tucked the bedclothes more snugly around his wife’s body and kissed her forehead. “Still no heir,” Lillian whispered to him, her grin lingering. “I suppose we’ll have to have another one.” “No, we won’t,” Westcliff replied hoarsely. “I’m never going through this again.

Daisy had no idea how to put herself to rights again. But she thought it would be a good thing to stop thinking about herself and do something for someone else.

Blast,” Daisy complained. “Blast, blast…Lillian, I had just gotten to the best part!” “As we speak there are at least a half-dozen eligible men who are lawn-bowling outside,” her sister said crisply. “And playing games with them is far more productive than reading by yourself.” “I don’t know anything about bowls.” “Good. Ask them to teach you. If there’s one thing every man loves to do, it’s telling a woman how to do something.

Daisy wasn’t certain why the notion that Matthew Swift could be in love with her should set her entire world upside-down. But it did. “If he is,” she asked Evie unsteadily, “then why is he so determined to pawn me off on Lord Llandrindon? It would be so easy for him to fall in with my father’s plans. And he would be richly rewarded. If on top of that he actually cares for me in the bargain, what could be holding him back?” “Maybe he wants to find out if you love him in return?” “No, Mr. Swift’s mind doesn’t work that way, any more than my father’s does. They’re men of business. Predators. If Mr. Swift wanted me, he wouldn’t stop to ask for my permission any more than a lion would stop and politely ask an antelope if he would mind being eaten for lunch.” “I think the two of you should have a forthright conversation,” Evie declared. “Oh, Mr. Swift would only evade and prevaricate, exactly as he has done so far. Unless…” “Unless?” “…I could find some way to make him let his guard down. And force him to be honest about whether he feels anything for me or not.” “How will you do that?” “I don’t know. Hang it, Evie, you know a hundred times more about men than I do. You’re married to one. You’re surrounded by them at the club. In your informed opinion, what is the quickest way to drive a man to the limits of his sanity and make him admit something he doesn’t want to?” Seeming pleased by the image of herself as a worldly woman, Evie contemplated the question. “Make him jealous, I suppose. I’ve seen civilized men fight like dogs in the alley behind the club over the f-favors of a particular lady.” “Hmm. I wonder if Mr. Swift could be provoked to jealousy.” “I should think so,” Evie said. “He’s a man, after all.

Give her a solid, practical name,' I told my wife when the child was born. Jane or Constance or something of the sort. Instead she chose Marguerite... French, mind you!... after a cousin on her maternal side. And then it degenerated further when Lillian, who was only four at the time, learned that Marguerite was the French word for a damned insignificant flower. But from then on Lillian called her Daisy, and it stuck..." As Bowman continued to ramble, Matthew thought of how perfect the name was, the small white-petaled flower that appeared so delicate and yet was remarkably hardy. It said something that in a family of overpowering personalities that Daisy had always remained stubbornly true to her own nature.

Evie,” she asked, “how do you know if you love someone?” Evie considered the question as they passed a low circular boundary hedge containing an explosion of multi-colored primulas. “I’m sure this is when I’m s-supposed to say something wise and helpful,” she said with a self-deprecating shrug. “But my situation was different from yours. St. Vincent and I didn’t expect to fall in love. It caught us both unaware.” “Yes, but how did you know?” “It was the moment I realized he was willing to die for me. I don’t think anyone, including St. Vincent, believed he was capable of self-sacrifice. It taught me that you can assume you know a person quite well— but that person can s-surprise you. Everything seemed to change from one moment to the next— suddenly he became the most important thing in the world to me. No, not important… necessary.

Don't leave me." "I can't, I'll never breathe again.

Gods must be crazy Flowers must be daisy Clouds must be hazy Winds must be lazy What else it could be… My heart must be in love lately…

I could never hate you. But now I can never love you.

Holy shit." Daisy breathes it out as they headed back to where Jonah was now standing with Levi. "If you made semen, I'd totally have your babies.

If my like for you was a footy crowd, you'd be deaf cos of the roar. And if my like for you were a boxer, there'd be a dead guy lying on the floor. And if my like for you were sugar, you'd lose your teeth before you were twenty. And if my like for you was money, let's just say you'd be spending plenty.

I don’t know what I’d do without you. “You’ll never have to know.

Drat. Daisy pulled back with a frown. She felt guilty that she had enjoyed the kiss so little. And it made her feel even worse when it appeared Llandrindon had enjoyed it quite a lot. “My dear Miss Bowman,” Llandrindon murmured flirtatiously. “You didn’t tell me you tasted so sweet.” He reached for her again, and Daisy danced backward with a little yelp. “My lord, control yourself!” “I cannot.” He pursued her slowly around the fountain until they resembled a pair of circling cats. Suddenly he made a dash for her, catching at the sleeve of her gown. Daisy pushed hard at him and twisted away, feeling the soft white muslin rip an inch or two at the shoulder seam. There was a loud splash and a splatter of water drops. Daisy stood blinking at the empty spot where Llandrindon had been, and then covered her eyes with her hands as if that would somehow make the entire situation go away. “My lord?” she asked gingerly. “Did you… did you just fall into the fountain?” “No,” came his sour reply. “You pushed me into the fountain.” “It was entirely unintentional, I assure you.” Daisy forced herself to look at him. Llandrindon rose to his feet, water streaming from his hair and clothes, his coat pockets filled to the brim. It appeared the dip in the fountain had cooled his passions considerably. He glowered at her in affronted silence. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he reached into one of his water-laden coat pockets. A tiny frog leaped from the pocket and returned to the fountain with a quiet plunk. Daisy tried to choke back her amusement, but the harder she tried the worse it became, until she finally burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth, while irrepressible giggles slipped out. “I’m so— oh dear—” And she bent over laughing until tears came to her eyes. The tension between them disappeared as Llandrin don began to smile reluctantly. He stepped from the fountain, dripping from every surface. “I believe when you kiss the toad,” he said dryly, “he is supposed to turn into a prince. Unfortunately in my case it doesn’t seem to have worked.” Daisy felt a rush of sympathy and kindness, even as she snorted with a few last giggles. Approaching him carefully, she placed her small hands on either side of his wet face and pressed a friendly, fleeting kiss on his lips. His eyes widened at the gesture. “You are someone’s handsome prince,” Daisy said, smiling at him apologetically. “Just not mine. But when the right woman finds you… how lucky she’ll be.

I have so much to tell you,” he whispered against her face. “And not enough time.” “We have nothing but time now,” she said. “Come lie down with me. Tell me everything. We’ll talk forever.

In a world full of daisies dare to be a rose.

I like her. Not the body she comes in. “Are you indecisive?” I wonder. “It looks like you have the rainbow in there.” “Precisely.” She smiles, licking the chocolate off her fingers. “Unicorns love rainbows. I love unicorns. Therefore thy hair must be a rainbow.

Indignation caused Mercedes to puff out her cheeks temporarily, causing her narrow face to resemble a set of inflated fireplace bellows. “You don’t like Mr. Swift any more than I do,” she retorted. “No,” Lillian said frankly. “But much as I hate to admit it, that puts us in a minority. Swift is liked by everyone in the northern hemisphere, including Westcliff and his friends, my friends, the servants, the neighbors—” “You are exaggerating—” “—children, animals and the higher order of plants,” Lillian finished sardonically. “If root vegetables could talk, I’ve no doubt they would say they like him, too.” Daisy, who was sitting by the window with a book, looked up with a sudden grin. “His charm doesn’t extend to poultry,” she said.

I shouldn’t tell you about it,” Daisy railed, pacing back and forth in the Marsden parlor later that evening. “In your condition you shouldn’t be distressed. But I can’t keep it to myself or I will explode, which you would probably find infinitely more distressing.

She paused at the threshold of the room and looked back at the pair on the settee with a troubled frown. Lillian had fallen fast asleep, her head centered heavily on Westcliff’s chest. As the earl met Daisy’s unhappy gaze, one of his brows raised in silent inquiry. “My father…” Daisy began, then bit her lip. This man was her father’s business partner. It was not appropriate to run to Westcliff with complaints. But the patience in his expression encouraged her to continue. “He called me a parasite,” she said, keeping her voice soft to avoid disturbing Lillian. “He asked me to tell him how the world has benefitted from my existence, or what I had ever done for anyone.” “And your reply?” Westcliff asked. “I…couldn’t think of anything to say.” Westcliff’s coffee-colored eyes were unfathomable. He made a gesture for her to approach the settee, and she obeyed. To her astonishment, he took her hand in his and gripped it warmly. The usually circumspect earl had never done such a thing before. “Daisy,” Westcliff said gently, “most lives are not distinguished by great achievements. They are measured by an infinite number of small ones. Each time you do a kindness for someone or bring a smile to his face, it gives your life meaning. Never doubt your value, little friend. The world would be a dismal place without Daisy Bowman in it.

I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything…Sophisticated — God, I’m sophisticated! (Daisy)

I was not supposed to end up freezing my ass off in a remake of Harry Potter meets The Italian Job by way of Fargo.

Rather than list all the things I don’t like about him,” Daisy said finally, “it’s far easier to say there is no reason why I should like him.

She bent and placed a single daisy upon the grave. A simple white daisy. The plainest of flowers, perhaps the purest, Elspeth thought. It had cost next to nothing at all, and perhaps that was the point. She wasn’t being cheap. She was being symbolic. In her mind, Andrea deserved only the unstained purity of the simplest of daisies, a daisy that was unsoiled by a wealth that couldn’t find the money to have claimed her soul.

She glanced at Evie, who flashed her a smile, and Annabelle, whose face was reassuringly calm. They would help each other through all the challenges and joys and fears of their lives, Daisy thought, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with love for all of them. “I will never live away from you,” she said. “I want the four of us to be together always. I could never bear to lose any of you.” She felt Annabelle’s slippered toe nudge her leg affectionately. “Daisy…you can never lose a true friend.

The brief silence that follows is as tender as a rainstorm of daisies.

The days that followed were what Matthew would remember for the rest of his life as a week of unholy torture. He had been to hell and back at a much earlier time in his life, having known physical pain, deprivation, near-starvation, and bone-chilling fear. But none of those discomforts came close to the agony of standing by and watching Daisy Bowman being courted by Lord Llandrindon. It seemed the seeds he had sown in Llandrindon’s mind about Daisy’s charms had successfully taken root. Llandrindon was at Daisy’s side constantly, chatting, flirting, letting his gaze travel over her with offensive familiarity. And Daisy was similarly absorbed, hanging on his every word, dropping whatever she happened to be doing as soon as Llandrindon appeared. On Monday they went out for a private picnic. On Tuesday they went for a carriage drive. On Wednesday they went to pick bluebells. On Thursday they fished at the lake, returning with damp clothes and sun-glazed complexions, laughing together at a joke they didn’t share with anyone else. On Friday they danced together at an impromptu musical evening, looking so well matched that one of the guests remarked it was a pleasure to watch them. On Saturday Matthew woke up wanting to murder someone.