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Commentaires de livres faits par JulietteTurpin

Extraits de livres par JulietteTurpin

Commentaires de livres appréciés par JulietteTurpin

Extraits de livres appréciés par JulietteTurpin

She nodded to the sauté pan. “The garlic is starting to burn.”
Nonna mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “So will their souls in Hell if we don’t save them, Nicoletta,” and I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
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If I had to guess, lying to a holy man in a place of worship in the presence of a demon who was on a secret mission for the devil was probably bad luck.
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I looked down at my new, finely made dress and frowned at the dark layers. “Why do villains always wear black?”
“Better to hide the blood with, witch.”
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''Olive,'' Dr. Aslan interrupted her with a stern tone. ''What do I always tell you?''
''Um... 'Don't misplace the multi-channel pipette'?''
''The other thing.''
She sighed. '' 'Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.' ''
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''Are you not...'' Olive had no idea how to even ask it. ''Married, or something?'' He must have been in his early thirties. He had a fantastic job; he was tall with thick, wavy black hair, clearly smart, even attractive looking; he was built. Yeah, he was a moody dick, but some women wouldn't mind it. Some women might even like it.

He shrugged. ''My wife and the twins won't mind.''

Oh, shit.
Olive felt a wave oh heat wash over her. She blushed crimson and then almost died of shame, because - God, she had forced a married man, a father, to kiss her. Now people thought that he was having an affair. His wife was probably crying into her pillow. His kids would grow up with horrible daddy issues and become serial killers.
''I... Oh my God, I didn't - I am so sorry -''
''Just kidding.''
''I really had no idea that you-''
''Olive. I was joking. I'm not married. No kids.''
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“Come on. Maybe we’re lucky and the chair
will spot us. And I’ll buy you an ice cream
sandwich afterward.”
“Will I be paying for this ice cream sandwich?”
He sounded resigned now.
“Likely. Actually, scratch that, you probably
don’t like ice cream anyway, because you don’t
enjoy anything that’s good in life.” She kept on
walking, pensively chewing on her lower lip.
“Maybe the cafeteria has some raw broccoli?”
“I don’t deserve this verbal abuse on top of the
flu shot.”
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“Olive,” Dr. Aslan interrupted her with a stern
tone. “What do I always tell you?”
“Um . . . ‘Don’t misplace the multichannel
pipette’?”
“The other thing.”
She sighed. “ ‘Carry yourself with the
confidence of a mediocre white man.’ ”
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He frowned. “No, as I said it’s a double—”
“It’s not. It won’t be. There will be only one
bed, for sure.”
He gave her a puzzled look. “I got the booking
confirmation the other day. I can forward it to you
if you want; it says that—”
“It doesn’t matter what it says. It’s always one
bed.”
He stared at her, perplexed, and she sighed and
leaned helplessly against the back of her chair.
He’d clearly never seen a rom-com or read a
romance novel in his life.
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. Adam Carlsen, responsible for 90 percent
of the department’s tears, had actually managed to
make someone stop crying. Who would’ve
thought?
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They were so close, now. She could smell his
scent and his warmth, and his hands were cradling
her face, thumbs swiping back and forth to dry her
cheeks.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured. “What is the
second thing?”
She was still crying, but she’d never been
happier. So she said it, probably in the worst
accent he’d ever heard.
“Ik hou van jou, Adam.”
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“You put in expired contacts?” He sounded
personally offended.
“Just a little expired.”
“What’s ‘a little’?”
“I don’t know. A few years?”
“What?” His consonants were sharp and
precise. Crisp. Pleasant.
“Only just a couple, I think.”
“Just a couple of years?”
“It’s okay. Expiration dates are for the weak.”
A sharp sound—some kind of snort.
“Expiration dates are so I don’t find you weeping
in the corner of my bathroom.”
Unless this dude was Mr. Stanford himself, he
really needed to stop calling this his bathroom.
“It’s fine.” She waved a hand. She’d have
rolled her eyes, if they hadn’t been on fire. “The
burning usually lasts only a few minutes.”
“You mean you’ve done this before?”
She frowned. “Done what?”
“Put in expired contacts.”
“Of course. Contacts are not cheap.”
“Neither are eyes.”
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“Are you okay?” He must be really tall. His
voice sounded like it came from ten feet above her.
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
“Because you are crying. In my bathroom.”
“Oh, I’m not crying. Well, I sort of am, but it’s
just tears, you know?”
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She bit her lip. “What if I’m not good
enough?” she blurted out, and why, God, why was
she baring the deepest fears of her secret little
heart to this random bathroom guy? And what was
the point, anyway? Every time she aired out her
doubts to friends and acquaintances, they all
automatically offered the same trite, meaningless
encouragements. You’ll be fine. You can do it. I
believe in you.
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“Is mine a good enough reason to go to grad
school?” she called after him, hating how eager for
approval she sounded. It was possible that she was
in the midst of some sort of existential crisis.
He paused and looked back at her. “It’s the best
one.”
He was smiling, she thought. Or something like
it.
“Good luck on your interview, Olive.”
“Thanks.”
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“Did you . . . Did you just kiss me?” He
sounded puzzled, and maybe a little out of breath.
His lips were full and plump and . . . God. Kissed.
There was simply no way Olive could get away
with denying what she had just done.
Still, it was worth a try.
“Nope.”
Surprisingly, it seemed to work.
“Ah. Okay, then.” Carlsen nodded and turned
around, looking vaguely disoriented.
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“Is there something wrong?” He sounded
almost concerned.
“What? No. No, there isn’t.”
“Because,” he continued calmly, “kissing a
stranger at midnight in a science lab might be a
sign that there is.”
“There isn’t.”
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“I just needed her to believe that I was on a
date.”
He nodded. “So you kissed the first person you
saw in the hallway. Perfectly logical.”
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“Are you not . . .” Olive had no idea how to
even ask it. “Married, or something?” He must
have been in his early thirties. He had a fantastic
job; he was tall with thick, wavy black hair, clearly
smart, even attractive looking; he was built. Yeah,
he was a moody dick, but some women wouldn’t
mind it. Some women might even like it.
He shrugged. “My wife and the twins won’t
mind.”
Oh, shit.
Olive felt a wave of heat wash over her. She
blushed crimson and then almost died of shame,
because— God, she had forced a married man, a
father, to kiss her. Now people thought that he was
having an affair. His wife was probably crying into
her pillow. His kids would grow up with horrible
daddy issues and become serial killers.
“I . . . Oh my God, I didn’t— I am so sorry—”
“Just kidding.”
“I really had no idea that you—”
“Olive. I was joking. I’m not married. No
kids.”
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Adam dug into his pockets for a few moments
and held out a crumpled paper napkin. Olive
stared at it, confused, until she realized that her
cheeks had somehow grown wet.
Oh.
“Adam, did you just offer me a used tissue?”
“I . . . maybe.” He pressed his lips together. “I
panicked.”
She chuckled wetly, accepting his gross tissue
and using it to blow her nose. They’d kissed twice,
after all. Why not share a bit of snot?
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“I wish you
could see yourself the way I see you.”
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"Une salle d'audience est le seul endroit où un homme a le droit à traitement équitable, de quelque couleur de l'arc-en-ciel que soit sa peau, mais les gens trouvent le moyen d'apporter leurs préjugés dans le box du jury. En grandissant, tu verras des Blancs tromper des Noirs tous les jours de ta vie, alors n'oublie pas ce que je vais te dire : lorsqu'un homme blanc se comporte ainsi avec un Noir, quels que soient son nom, ses origines et sa fortune, cet homme blanc est une ordure."
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"C'était ce que je pensais moi aussi, finit-il par dire, quand j'avais ton âge. S'il y a une seule sorte de gens, pourquoi n'arrivent-ils pas à s'entendre ? S'ils se ressemblent, pourquoi passent-ils leur temps à se mépriser les uns les autres ? Scout, je crois que je commence à comprendre quelque chose ! Je crois que je commence à comprendre pourquoi Boo Radley est resté enfermé tout ce temps. C'est parce qu'il n'a pas envie de sortir."
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Il y a des vainqueurs et des victimes.
Décidez qui vous voulez être.
Ou le choix sera fait pour vous, sorcière.
Et je doute que vous l'aimiez.
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date : 18-09-2020 par Talasi
— Vous aimez cet endroit ?
— Bien sûr. Il y a des livres.
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date : 26-03-2019 par Marlene2303
« – Tu portes du parfum ? demanda-t-elle en emplissant ses poumons.
Il se raidit.
– Non, pourquoi ?
Elle se pencha le plus possible sans pour autant enfouir son visage dans son cou. Elle voulait sentir davantage son odeur enivrante.
– Tu sens très bon. C’est quoi ?
D’où venait cette odeur ? Elle était partout sur lui mais légère. Elle brûlait d’envie d’en inhaler une dose plus concentrée.
– Michael ?
Une expression étrange traversa ses traits.
– C’est juste moi, Stella.
– Tu sens aussi bon naturellement ?
– On dirait. Tu es la première à me le dire.
– Je veux sentir cette odeur sur ma peau.
Les mots avaient à peine franchi ses lèvres qu’elle craignait d’être maladroite. Cette remarque était trop personnelle et un peu bizarre. Qu’en penserait-il ?
Il se pencha vers elle. Ses lèvres effleurèrent presque son oreille.
– Tu es sûre que tu es nulle au lit ?
– Comment ça ?
– Pour l’instant, tu es très douée.
Elle contracta les doigts sur le bras de Michael et refréna l’envie l’envie impérieuse de se presser contre lui comme une strip-teaseuse autour d’une barre. L’idée la dérouta. Elle n’était pas du genre à se frotter contre les hommes parce que, contrairement à lui, elle détestait qu’on la touche. Mais elle avait tellement envie de se rapprocher que c’en était presque douloureux.
– On a encore rien fait.
– Tu es très douée pour la conversation. »
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S'il y a qu'une sorte de gens, pourquoi n'arrivent-ils pas à s'entendre? S'ils se ressemblent, pourquoi passent-ils leur temps à se mépriser les uns les autres? Scout, je crois que je commence à comprendre quelque chose! Je crois que je commence à comprendre pourquoi Boo Radley est resté enfermé tout ce temps. C'est parce qu'il n'a pas envie de sortir.
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