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Better to be bombed at home among friends than be safe and corroding in exile.
“Ah, domestic life,” mused Giles, ducking in after Osla. “Why wait for death?”
“Go to hell, you pathetic three-inch excuse for a man … ,
“D’you want a ring?” “Yes,” she heard herself laugh. “I want a ring.” “Bound to be a ruby somewhere in London that matches your lips.”
Why couldn’t people punctuate properly, for God’s sake?
There’s not much of me left over, Beth. But all of it belongs to you.”
Grief didn’t make you noble. It made you selfish and hateful.
