Oval meaning

Adjective: oval

Pronunciation:(ow-vul)

Oval meaning:

• Rounded like an egg

Synonyms: egg-shaped, ovate, oviform, ovoid, prolate, elliptic, elliptical

Noun: oval

Pronunciation:(ow-vul)

Oval meaning:

• A closed plane curve resulting from the intersection of a circular cone and a plane cutting completely through it

Synonyms: ellipse

Derived forms: ovals

Quotations:

1. Amanda Hocking – You just couldn’t wait to get me naked, could you, Princess? Loki asked tiredly. I started to pull my hand back, but he put his own hand over it, keeping it in place.“No, I was checking for wounds,” I stumbled. I wouldn’t meet his gaze. I’m sure.  He moved his thumb, almost caressing my hand, until it hit my ring. What’s that? He tried to sit up to see it, so I lifted my hand, showing him the emerald-encrusted oval on my finger. “Is that a wedding ring?” No, engagement.  I lowered my hand, resting it on the bed next to him. I’m not married yet. I’m not too late, then. He smiled and settled back in the bed. Too late for what? I asked. To stop you, of course. Still smiling, he closed his eyes.
2. Beth Revis – He blinks. Touches the side of my face, near my eyes. My eyes that are blue now, not green. With oval irises.”I’m still me,” I say, because my greatest fear now is that he doesn’t want a hybrid Amy.He cocks an eyebrow. You think I care if your eyes are blue or green? I just care about you. His hand slips down my arm, and he wraps his pinky finger around mine.”You came back to me,” I say, my voice breaking over unshed tears of joy. I’ll always come back to you, he tells me pulling me close.Always.
3. Amanda Hocking – I touched Loki’s chest, running my fingers over the bumps of his scar. I didn’t know why exactly, but I felt compelled to, as if the scar connected us somehow. “You just couldn’t wait to get me naked, could you, Princess?” Loki asked tiredly. I started to pull my hand back, but he put his own hand over it, keeping it in pace. No,I-I was checking for wounds, I stumbled. I wouldn’t meet his gaze. I’m sure. He moved his thumb, almost caressing my hand, until it hit my ring. “What’s that?” He tried to sit up to see it, so I lifted my hand, showing him the emerald-encrusted oval on my finger. Is that a wedding ring? No, engagement. I lowered my hand, resting it on the bed next to him. “I’m not married yet. I’m not too late, then.” He smiled and settled back in the bed. Too late for what?  I asked. To stop you, of course. Still smiling, he closed his eyes. Is that why you’re here?  I asked, failing to point out how near we were to my nuptials. I told you why I’m here, Loki said. What happened to you, Loki?  I asked, my voice growing thick when I thought about what he had to have gone through to get all those marks and bruises.”Are you crying?” Loki asked and opened his eyes.”No, I’m not crying.” I wasn’t, but my eyes were moist. Don’t cry. He tried to sit up, but he winced when he lifted his head, so I put my hand gently on his chest to keep him down. You need to rest,  I said. I will be fine.  He put his hand over mine again, and I let him. Eventually.Can you tell me what happened? I asked. Why do you need amnesty? Remember when we were in the garden? Loki asked. Of course I remembered. Loki had snuck in over the wall and asked me to run away with him. I had declined, but he’d stolen a kiss before he left, a rather nice kiss. My cheeks reddened slightly at the memory, and that make Loki smile wider.”I see you do.” He grinned.”What does that have to do with anything?” I asked. That doesn’t, Loki said, referring to the kiss. I meant when I told you that the King hates me. He really does, Wendy. His eyes went dark for a minute.
4. Mariana Zapata – Knew the moment I saw you, standing  outside the shop, scared, that you were an innocent little thing. So sweet. So good. He lowered his head to take my chin between his teeth. You got no idea what it’s like for you to give me your trust, Ritz. If I was a good man I’d tell you to find somebody better, somebody that won’t lose their shit over an asshole  you. His tongue traced the oval shape of my chin. But I’m not a good man, and I’m gonna take everything you want to give me and everything you don’t.
5. Seanan McGuire – You can’t save everyone and leave yourself lost, October. It isn’t fair. Not to you and not to the people who care about you. I’m not lost Tybalt, I said. It was oddly hard to meet his eyes now that they registered as human. His irises were supposed to be malachite green, not muddy hazel, and his pupils were supposed to be oval, not round. “I know exactly where I am.”A smile crossed his face. If I believed that, I would walk away and never darken your door again. I can forgive you your foolishness only because I know how lost you are. But one day, you’ll have to come back home. When you do, I hope you’ll find me waiting.
6. Margaret Atwood – Then she let him lick her fingers for her. He ran his tongue around the small ovals of her nails. This was the closest she could get to him without becoming food: she was in him, or part of her was in part of him. Sex was the other way around: While that was going on, he was in her. I’ll make you mine, lovers said in old books. They never said, I’ll make you me.
7. Vladimir Nabokov – One opal cloudlet in an oval form reflects the rainbow of a thunderstorm which in a distant valley has been staged for we are most artistically caged.
8. James Gould Cozzens – Moving on, while he wondered, the dark through which Mr. Lecky’s light cut grew more beautiful with scents. Particles of solid matter so minute, gases so subtle, that they filtered through stopping and sealing, hung on the unstirred air. Drawn in with Mr. Lecky’s breath came impalpable dews cooked out of disintegrating coal. Distilled, chemically split and reformed, they ended in flawless simulation of the aromas of gums, the scent of woods and the world’s flowers. The chemists who made them could do more than that. Loose on the gloom were perfumes of flowers which might possibly have bloomed but never had, and the strong-smelling saps of trees either lost or not yet evolved. Mixed in the mucus of the pituitary membrane, these volatile essences meant more than synthetic chemistry to Mr. Lecky. Their microscopic slime coated the bushed-out ends of the olfactory nerve; their presence was signaled to the anterior of the brain’s temporal lobe. At once, thought waited on them, tossing down from the great storehouse of old images, neglected ideas – sandalwood and roses, musk and lavender. Mr. Lecky stood still, wrung by pangs as insistent and unanswerable as hunger. He was prodded by the unrest of things desired, not had; the surfeit of things had, not desired. More than anything he could see, or words, or sounds, these odors made him stupidly aware of the past. Unable to remember it, whence he was, or where he had previously been, all that was sweet, impermanent and gone came back not spoiled by too much truth or exact memory. Volatile as the perfumes, the past stirred him with longing for what was not – the only beloved beauty which you will have to see but which you may not keep.Mr. Lecky’s beam of light went through glass top and side of a counter, displayed bottles of colored liquid – straw, amber, topaz – threw shadows behind their diverse shapes. He had no use for perfume. All the distraction, all the sense of loss and implausible sweetness which he felt was in memory of women.Behind the counter, Mr. Lecky, curious, took out bottles, sniffed them, examined their elaborately varied forms – transparent squares, triangles, cones, flattened ovals. Some were opaque, jet or blue, rough with embedded metals in intricate design. This great and needless decoration of the flasks which contained it was one strange way to express the inexpressible. Another way was tried in the names put on the bottles. Here words ran the suggestive or symbolic gamut of idealized passion, or festive night, of desired caresses, or of abstractions of the painful allure yet farther fetched.Not even in the hopeful, miracle-raving fancy of those who used the perfumes could a bottle of liquid have any actual magic. Since the buyers at the counters must be human beings, nine of every ten were beyond this or other help. Women, young, but unlovely and unloved, women, whatever they had been, now at the end of it and ruined by years or thickened to caricature by fat, ought to be the ones called to mind by perfume. But they were not. Mr. Lecky held the bottle in his hand a long while, aware of the tenth woman.
9. Joan Lindsay – Sometimes just to look at Miranda’s calm oval face and straight corn-yellow hair gave her a sharp little stab of pleasure.
10. Alexandre Dumas – This was now all changed. The oval face was lengthened, his smiling mouth had assumed the firm and marked lines which betoken resolution; his eyebrows were arched beneath a brow furrowed with thought; his eyes were full of melancholy, and from their depths occasionally sparkled gloomy fires of misanthropy and hatred; his complexion, so long kept from the sun, had now that pale color which produces, when the features are encircled with black hair, the aristocratic beauty of the man of the north; the profound learning he had acquired had besides diffused over his features a refined intellectual expression; and he had also acquired, being naturally of a goodly stature, that vigor which a frame possesses which has so long concentrated all its force within itself.

Sample sentences:

1. Everyone has always said I look like Bailey, but I don’t. I have grey eyes to her green,an oval face to her heart-shaped one, I’m shorter, scrawnier, paler, flatter, plainer, tamer.All we shared is a madhouse of curls that I imprison in a ponytail while she let hers rave like madness around her head.I don’t sing in my sleep or eat the petals off flowers or run into the rain instead of out of it. I’m the unplugged-in one,the side-kick sister,tucked into a corner of her shadow.Boys followed her everywhere;they filled the booths at the restaurant where she waitressed, herded around her at the river.One day, I saw a boy come up behind her and pull a strand of her long hair I understood this I felt the same way. In photographs of us together,she is always looking at the camera, and I am always looking at her.
2. Her eyes were dark. Dark as chocolate, dark as coffee, dark as the polished wood of my father’s lute. They were set in a fair face, oval. Like a teardrop. Her easy smile could stop a man’s heart. Her lips were red. Not the garish painted red so many women believe makes them desirable. Her lips were always red, morning and night. As if minutes before you saw her, she had been eating sweet berries, or drinking heart’s blood. No matter where she stood, she was in the center of the room. Do not misunderstand. She was not loud, or vain. We stare at a fire because it flickers, because it glows. The light is what catches our eyes, but what makes a man lean close to a fire has nothing to do with its bright shape. What draws you to a fire is the warmth you feel when you come near.
3. Around the outskirts of the city, cut off from town by the black oval of the river, everything was in darkness. Everyone ugly was in bed by now.
4. The room I entered was a dream of this room. Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.The oval portrait of a dog was me at an early age. Something shimmers, something is hushed up.We had macaroni for lunch every day except Sunday, when a small quail was induced to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things? You are not even here.
5. An airplane crossed the sky, and she imagined its interior-people packed in rows like eggs in a carton, the chemical smell of the toilets, pretzels in foil pouches, cans hiss-popping open, black oval of night sky embedded in the rattling walls. How strange that something so drab, so confined, so stifling with sour exhalations and the fumes of indifferent machinery might be mistaken for a star.
6. The government of the United States seems to have made common cause with the planet’s thugs, crooks, and dictators against its own ideals and in fact to have imported the spirit of thuggery, crookedness, and dictatorship into the very core of the American state, into the most solemn symbolic oval center of its law and liberty. The man inside that oval center did not act alone. He held his power with the connivance of others. They executed his orders and empowered his whims for crass and cowardly reasons of their own: partisanship, ambition, greed for gain, eagerness for attention, ideological zeal, careerist conformity, or in the worst cases malicious glee in the wreck of things they could never have built themselves. They claim the symbols of the republic as they subvert its institutions. They pin the flag to their lapels before commencing the day’s work of lying, obstructing, and corrupting. They speak for America to a world that remembers a different and better America. But that memory is already fading into a question of whether it was not perhaps always an illusion, whether this new regime of deceit and brutishness will not only form the future but whether it also retrospectively discredits the American past
7. In her hand was a necklace with a small oval pendant, a half of a locket engraved with one of the same symbols from the mirror frame what Quinn saw as rolling waves. The Mirror.
8. For that matter, few ideas are as crazy as my favorite thing, running. It’s hard. It’s painful. It’s risky. The rewards are few and far from guaranteed. When you run around an oval track, or down an empty road, you have no real destination. At least, none that can fully justify the effort. The act itself becomes the destination. It’s not just that there’s no finish line; it’s that you define the finish line. Whatever pleasures or gains you derive from the act of running, you must find them within. It’s all in how you frame it, how you sell it to yourself.
9. I like food that speaks to me. Food like French toast, English muffins, and Deviled eggs. Oh, oval embryonic spawn of chicken, why hast thou deceived me?
10. Jupiter was a chilly, dark and unfriendly tract of land in which no hope lingered, only despair. There she woke up in an oval dungeon.
11. Why, observe the thing; turn it over; hold it up to the window; count the beads, long, oval, like some seaweed bulbs, each an amulet. See the tint; it’s very old; like clots of sunshine, aren’t they? Now bring it near; see the carving, here corrugated, there faceted, now sculptured into hideous, tiny, heathen gods. You didn’t notice that before! How difficult it must have been, when amber is so friable! Here’s one with a chessboard on his back, and all his kings and queens and pawns slung round him. Here’s another with a torch, a flaming torch, its fire pouring out inverted. They are grotesque enough; but this, this is matchless: such a miniature woman, one hand grasping the round rock behind, while she looks down into some gulf, perhaps, beneath, and will let herself fall. 0, you should see her with a magnifying-glass! You want to think of calm satisfying death, a mere exhalation, a voluntary slipping into another element? There it is for you. They are all gods and goddesses. They are all here but one; I’ve lost one, the knot of all, the love of the thing. Well! Wasn’t it queer for a Catholic girl to have at prayer?
12. I’m a believer in universal brotherhood, said Temple, glancing about him out of his dark oval eyes. Marx is only a bloody cod.
13. Her forehead, so high and oval, reminded him of how Shakespeare was supposed to look. He was not certain how to put this to her.