She found herself longing for home-not just for the hotel but for New York and all the real novels that she could lose herself in there.

She felt so much aware of her own beauty it seemed inconceivable that everybody else wouldn't notice the difference too.

You love her," Teddy observed quietly. Henry replied with an uncharacteristic lack of irony: "Yes." Teddy's eyes shifted to the plaster interlacing that decorated the ceiling in curlicues. "Lord, you never make it easy, do you." "No.

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.

Henry shook his head, 'I was drunk,' he said, trying to sound both ashamed and firm in this belief. He remembered the rosebush incident very clearly, of course, but he knew that sneaking into the bedroom window of his fiancee's little sister wasn't something he wanted to explain to his father. Sometimes, Henry reflected, being taken for a perpetual drunk was sort of convenient.

Things only looked wrong when there was someone to see you.

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