"Pert" Quotes from Famous Books
 ... pretty speech, but the "Good Night! Good Night! my dear, sweet, pretty mamma" is of the very spirit of the redundancy by which children hope in heaping words together to express accumulation of emotion. Du Maurier's children never make the nasty pert answers upon which, for their nearly impossible but always vulgar smartness, the providers of jokes about children for the comic papers generally depend. He is simply going on with his "novel"—The Tale of ...
— George Du Maurier, the Satirist of the Victorians • T. Martin Wood
... nor even the Russian, made himself abhorred, employed his study in vexing the feelings of the people, had a perpetual sneer on his visage, or exhibited in his habits a perpetual affectation of that coxcomb superiority to all other human beings, that pert supremacy, that grotesque and yet irritating caricature, which makes the Moi, je suis Francais, a demand for universal adoration, the concentrated essence of absurdity, the ...
— Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine--Vol. 54, No. 333, July 1843 • Various
... Sagamoni Borcan mourut iiij vint et iiij foiz et tousjourz resuscita, et a chascune foiz d'une diverse maniere de beste, et a la derreniere foyz mourut hons et devint diex, selonc ce qu'il dient.'[17] Et fist encore Messires Marc: 'A moy pert-il trop estrange chose se juesques a toutes les creances des ydolastres deust decheoir ceste grantz et saige nation. Ainsi peuent jouer Misire li filsoufe atout lour propre perte, mes a l'ore quand tiex fantaisies se respanderont es joenes bacheliers et parmy la menue gent, celz averont pour ...
— The Travels of Marco Polo Volume 1 • Marco Polo and Rustichello of Pisa
... time to deliver the rather pert reply which she was preparing, for the door opened, and the young man ...
— The White Lady of Hazelwood - A Tale of the Fourteenth Century • Emily Sarah Holt
... stooping over it, and go to the door myself. Whom do I see at the threshold? It is not a dripping love, and I am not an old Anacreon; but it is a very pretty little boy of about ten years old. He is alone; he raises his face to look at me. His cheeks are blushing; but his little pert nose gives one an idea of mischievous pleasantry. He has feathers in his cap, and a great lace-ruff on his jacket. The pretty little fellow! He holds in both arms a bundle as big as himself, and asks me if I am Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard. I tell him yes; ...
— The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard • Anatole France
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