Quotes with savored

What is sin?It is the glory of God not honored.The holiness of God not reverenced.The greatness of God not admired.The power of God not praised.The truth of God not sought.The wisdom of God not esteemed.The beauty of God not treasured.The goodness of God not savored.The faithfulness of God not trusted.The commandments of God not obeyed.The justice of God not respected.The wrath of God not feared.The grace of God not cherished.The presence of God not prized.The person of God not loved.That is sin.

The following year the house was substantially remodeled, and the conservatory removed. As the walls of the now crumbling wall were being torn down, one of the workmen chanced upon a small leatherbound book that had apparently been concealed behind a loose brick or in a crevice in the wall. By this time Emily Dickinson was a household name in Amherst. It happened that this carpenter was a lover of poetry- and hers in particular- and when he opened the little book and realized that that he had found her diary, he was “seized with a violent trembling,” as he later told his grandson. Both electrified and terrified by the discovery, he hid the book in his lunch bucket until the workday ended and then took it home. He told himself that after he had read and savored every page, he would turn the diary over to someone who would know how to best share it with the public. But as he read, he fell more and more deeply under the poet’s spell and began to imagine that he was her confidant. He convinced himself that in his new role he was no longer obliged to give up the diary. Finally, having brushed away the light taps of conscience, he hid the book at the back of an oak chest in his bedroom, from which he would draw it out periodically over the course of the next sixty-four years until he had virtually memorized its contents. Even his family never knew of its existence. Shortly before his death in 1980 at the age of eighty-nine, the old man finally showed his most prized possession to his grandson (his only son having preceded him in death), confessing that his delight in it had always been tempered by a nagging guilt and asking that the young man now attempt to atone for his grandfather’s sin. The grandson, however, having inherited both the old man’s passion for poetry and his tendency towards paralysis of conscience, and he readily succumbed to the temptation to hold onto the diary indefinitely while trying to decide what ought to be done with it.

She had not understood what it had been like for him to live his entire life underground, chained and beaten and crippled—until then. Until she heard that noise of undiluted, unyielding joy.Until she echoed it, tipping her head back to the clouds around them.They sailed over a sea of clouds, and Abraxos dipped his claws in them before tilting to race up a wind-carved column of cloud. Higher and higher, until they reached its peak and he flung out his wings in the freezing, thin sky, stopping the world entirely for a heartbeat.And Manon, because no one was watching, because she did not care, flung out her arms as well and savored the freefall, the wind now a song in her ears, in her shriveled heart.

In the beginning, the taste of power is sweet, savored on the tongue, like fine wine. It whispers promises in your ear and pretends to be your friend. It is easy to become addicted to this feeling.

A near half hour passed as Salvatore weaved his way through the winding tunnel, his steps slowing as he tilted back his head to sniff the air.The scent of cur was still strong, but he was beginning to pick up the distant scent of other curs, and…pure-blood.Female pureblood.Coming to a sharp halt, Salvatore savored the rich vanilla aroma that filled his senses.He loved the smell of women. Hell, he loved women.But this was different.It was intoxicating.“Cristo,” he breathed, his blood racing, an odd tightness coiling through his body, slowly draining his strength. Almost as if…No. It wasn’t possible.There hadn’t been a true Were mating for centuries.“Curs,” Levet said, moving to his side. “And a female pureblood.”“Si,” Salvatore muttered, distracted. “You think it’s a trap?”Salvatore swallowed a grim laugh. Hell, he hoped it was a trap. The alternative was enough to send any intelligent Were howling into the night.“There’s only one way to find out.”He moved forward, sensing the end of the tunnel just yards in front of him.“Salvatore?” Levet tugged on his pants.Salvatore shook him off. “What?”“You smell funny. Mon Dieu, are you…” With blinding speed, Salvatore grasped the gargoyle by one stunted horn and yanked him off his feet to glare into his ugly face. Until that moment, he hadn’t noticed the musky scent that clung to his skin.Merda.“One more word and you lose that tongue,” he snarled.“But…”“Do not screw with me.”“I do not intend to screw with anyone.” The gargoyle curled his lips in a mocking smile. “I am not the one in heat.

I ordered a coffee and a little something to eat and savored the warmth and dryness. Somewhere in the background Nat King Cole sang a perky tune. I watched the rain beat down on the road outside and told myself that one day this would be twenty years ago.

I savored every yes, every more, every oh, every there, every please. I wanted every one of her words. I knew what it was not to have them— I’d never take them for granted.

You should stop by the shop. I'll make you up a special Welcome-To-Marietta chocolate basket for Samara. She'll love it."Of course. He should have thought of it himself. "She's got this salted caramel thing that will earn you major points," said Dawson. "the ladies love it.""I shouldn't say this in church." Sage looked down, and dropped her voice to a whisper. "But it's been called orgasmic."With that word, for a split second, everyone around him disappeared. Logan imagined putting a tiny square of rich, smooth candy onto Samara's tongue, watching her lips move as she savored it, kissing her, sharing the sweet, silky heat. What sound would she make when the flavor hit the back of her mouth? Would she moan? Would she ask for more? "It's a gift that keeps on giving," added Dawson, waggling his eyebrows.

She tasted the day he lost his first job. She tasted the morning he had awakened, still drunk, in his car, in the middle of a cornfield, and, terrified, had sworn off the bottle for ever. She knee his real name. She remembered the name that had once been tattooed on his arm and knew why it could be there no longer. She tasted the color of his eyes from the inside, and shivered at the nightmare he had in which he was forced to carry spiny fish in his mouth, and from which he woke, choking, night after night. She savored the hungers in food and fiction, and discovered a dark sky when he was a small boy and he had stared up at the stars and wondered at their vastness and immensity, that even he had forgotten.

it is to be savored like a seabreeze-whispereddream...in the mysteriousblue minutesbefore dawnlike a secretinfatuation.... like slowlanguorous sipsof green tea... like a lingeringglimpsea self-wrappedparadiselike his name upon my lips.

He pulled her into his arms. Closing his eyes, he savored every inch of her small frame. God, why did she have to be the daughter of the Governor of Fort William? Why could she not be a simple lass from his clan. “Och, mo leannan, what am I to do with you?” She took in a stilted gasp. “Love me.

The schoolroom . . . Olivia had always adored its confines and endless horizons. The melodious purr of the teacher's voice rising up and down her lessons like a musical score. And the sight of book spines--black, blue, green--lined up side by side like London townhouses. Each leather rectangle a gift waiting to be opened and explored and savored.

What did she think she understood about him? His gorgeous appearance was only the first layer, yet it was one that she savored now as if she had been hungry for it all of her life. Α wealth of lace and silk on a man was something she had always taken for granted. It spoke of power and social status, vital to the structure of society. Yet Alden had turned it into something elseHis appearance was both beautiful and witty, almost as if he celebrated the irony of hiding masculine muscle beneath such essentially feminine frippery. For a woman to put her hand on a man's sleeve and feel the hard tension of his arm beneath the silk was intensely erotic. Perhaps no age had ever been as blatantly sensual as this one. No wonder men like Alden reveled in it, reaping woman after woman like a scythe harvesting flowers.