"Your friend's poetry is terrible," he said. Clary blinked, caught momentarily off guard. "What?" "I said his poetry was terrible. It sounds like he … - Cassandra Clare

I think it's strawberry juice," Isabelle said. "Anyway, it's yummy. Jace?" She offered him the glass. "I am a man," he told her, "and men do not consume pink beverages. Get thee gone, woman, and bring me something brown." "Brown?" Isabelle made a face. "Brown is a manly color.

"Not everything is about you," Clary said furiously.
"Possibly," Jace said, "but you do have to admit that the majority of things are."

"My name is Herondale," the boy said cheerfully. "William Herondale, but everyone calls me Will. Is this really your room? Not very nice, is it?" He wandered toward the window, pausing to examine the stacks of books on her bedside table, and then the bed itself. He waved a hand at the ropes. "Do you often sleep tied to the bed?"