“I haf von funny leedle poy
Vot comes schust to mine knee;
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,
As ever you dit see.
He runs und schumps and schmashes dings
In all barts off der house:
But vot off dot? He vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.”

“Are you mine?”
Yes.
“Are you mine?”
Yes.
“Are you mine?”
No.
“No?”
No. I loved being yours. But now I’m mine, which is all I ever was, in the end.”

“You are mine, you shall be mine, you and I are one for ever.”

“What do you think?" I whisper to Peeta. "About the fire?"
"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth.”

“no matter what bullshit you heard, hes still mine! he'll always be mine”

“Punch any of mine, and I’ll break your arm off and beat you to death with it.”

“Son, suppose you tend to your knitting and I tend to mine.”

“For the first time, I saw what was in his heart, and I wondered if he might ever want to look deep enough to see mine.”

“Mine. He was mine, and not even death would take him from me—not if I could help it.”

“And just like this, all of a sudden, your people and mine will begin to talk?" "It only looks sudden from some places. Running off a cliff is sudden if you don't know it's there, even if you have been running toward it for days." "That's not a reassuring metaphor.”