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She was, as always, like her name—something you desperately wanted to keep caged for the sheer greed of possessing it.
She had the sort of beauty that left you bleeding internally after gazing for too long.
But the Biddles didn’t bleed. Like the Fieldings, they were bankers; they bled other people.
Like sticks of chewing gum, their sweetness lasted for only so long before he no longer wanted them.
It’s a dreadful vexation to be a shadow when you’re supposed to be the sun.”
Why did she sometimes have such un-Christian thoughts?
“Well then, I guess the devil’s got nothing on me.”
“The dead won’t make me swoon and neither will you, Mr. Jones.”
Nature was fierce in her efforts to cover the dead with life, rooting them down without mercy and preventing them from haunting the living.
She was a woman, after all. It was their lot in life, wasn’t it? Never to own yourself completely.
There were only so many pieces of your heart that could be damaged before it irrevocably changed you.
The most acceptable gifts . . . are the ones made precious by our love of the giver.”
“If I wanted ordinary, I wouldn’t be standing here with you, would I?”
Somewhere in the world at that moment, there was a birth, a death, a sunrise, and a sunset. There was despair, and a burst of laughter, a promise broken, and a vow made.
