She was like a heroine in a novel that she herself was writing the character kept protesting that she was too strong for love and yet the narrator went on describing her desire.

I can't imagine what my life was before. I can't imagine ever being without you for very long again.

She was full of some strange energy that morning. Her every movement had purpose and life and she seemed to find satisfaction in every little thing.

But in that moment she realized how false most smiles were and what a tremendous waste of time.

That was the way love was, she guessed-it left you always unsteady on your feet.

They were all dressed in their finest as though life really were some magical stage play in which every moment ought to be illuminated with its own bright spotlight.

She had rarely been near Henry since then, and the sight of him now was like a concentrated dose.