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Stolen kisses are always sweetest.
I had so many freckles that my mother used to say that they were kisses from the angels. I still have them.
Moving between the legs of tables and of chairs, rising or falling, grasping at kisses and toys, advancing boldly, sudden to take alarm, retreating to the corner of arm and knee, eager to be reassured, taking pleasure in the fragrant brilliance of the Christmas tree.
People think, 'Wow, you're an actress, so people must be really nice to you and kiss your ass.' NOBODY kisses my ass.
Every night, I say goodnight to the kids like Rajesh Khanna, muah muah, two kisses, say goodnight to my wife, and every night, I'd go to the recreation room and watch cricket with two old men.
More than kisses, letters mingle souls.
You don't stop thinking about women just because your wife dies. It's terrible, but you know. I just want the hugs, the kisses. A kiss!
People who throw kisses are hopelessly lazy.
I had true rivalries. Not only did I want to beat my opponent, but I didn't want to let him up, either. I had a rivalry with Mac, Lendl, Borg. Everybody knew there was tension between us, on court and off. That's what's really ingrained in my mind: 'This is real. This isn't a soft rivalry.' There were no hugs and kisses.
That Hollywood thing, where everybody hugs and kisses everybody else - I always stiffen. It's an assumed familiarity. It's phony.