“Calvin said, “Do you know that this is the first time I’ve seen you without your glasses?”
“I’m blind as a bat without them. I’m near-sighted, like father.”
“Well, you know what, you’ve got dream-boat eyes,” Calvin said. “Listen, you go right on wearing your glasses. I don’t think I want anybody else to see what gorgeous eyes you have.”
“He called you pretty,” he finally continued, his frown deepening. “That’s practically an insult, the way you look right now. You’re much more than beautiful.”
″‘My friend,’ came the voice, ‘you’re a *very* find friend. You’ve helped all us folks on this dust speck no end. You’ve saved all our houses, our ceilings and floors. You’ve saved all our churches and grocery stores.‘”
“Say she rail; why, I’ll tell her plain
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale.
Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash’d with dew.
Say she be mute and will not speak a word;
Then I’ll commend her volubility,
and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.”
“She’s as bright as the morning. She corresponds to your description;it is for that I wish you to know her. She fills all your requirements.”
“More or less, of course.”
“No; quite literally. She is beautiful, accomplished, generous, and for an American, well-born. She is also very clever and very amiable, and she has a handsome fortune.”
“Have I told you how hideous you look tonight?” Cardan asks, leaning back in the elaborately carved chair, the warmth of his words turning the question into something like a compliment.
“No” I say, glad to be annoyed back into the present. “Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“I entered Excessive Modesty Mode. Nothing is stupider and more ineffective than Excessive Modesty Mode. It is a mode in which you show that you’re modest by arguing with someone who is trying to compliment you. Essentially, you are going out of your way to try to convince someone that you’re a jerk.”
″‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a laugh that makes others want to laugh?’
‘Doter, my neighbor, always says, ‘Miri’s laugh is a tune you love to whistle.‘”
“When you don’t have to hide anymore, even years from now, there’ll always be some small part of you whispering, ‘I don’t deserve this. I didn’t fight for it. I’m not worth it.’ And you are, Luke, you are. You’re smart and funny and nice, and you should be living life, instead of being buried alive in that old house of yours.”
“Reaching in, he grabbed another book and dragged a finger across the cover. “This one’s good, too.” His large eyes blinked up at me. “You have good taste.”
They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.
Charlie Sloane is dead gone on you. He told his mother—his mother, mind you—that you were the smartest girl in school. That’s better than being good looking.