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.

Interesting" people were her favorite hobby. She collected them: the type who did gay things late at night and smoked cigarettes in mixed company, those would have most scandalized her own mother.

Diana knew it wouldn't be right, but then she told herself that things only looked wrong when there was someone to see you.

Though her emotions had not deviated from a jittery frailty she knew that in her own room she could at least attempt sleep and that if she dreamed she might then finally be with Henry.

In New York there is always something to look at, but it is all infinitely more interesting through a window in the backseat of a limousine.

It had been an awful thing to lose Henry the first time, to matrimony, but to discover what a false front he was capable of was another kind of blow, and it had left her almost speechless. Then there was the fury with herself—for she had known what Henry’s love was, and still she had gone back to suffer a little more at his hands.

Diana felt she was beginning to understand why, in all those novels she read, the headiest loves were the loves that couldn't be.