A man is made in the rough-and-tumble of the world a lady emerges from the flossy back rooms of her own imagination.

There was no pleasure like being envied on a mass scale.

There was plenty of life left and if he had to he would use it all to get her back. The time had passed for making promises to her-all that was left for him was to act.

The first stab of love is like a sunset, a blaze of color - oranges, pearly pinks, vibrant purples.

It is easy to forget now, how effervescent and free we all felt that summer. Everything fades: the shimmer of gold over White Cove; the laughter in the night air; the lavender early morning light on the faces of skyscrapers, which had suddenly become so heroically tall. Every dawn seemed to promise fresh miracles, among other joys that are in short supply these days. And so I will try to tell you, while I still remember, how it was then, before everything changed-that final season of the era that roared.

We see our sins reflected everywhere: in the pallor of our intimates’ faces, in the scratching of tree branches against windows, in the strange movements of everyday objects. These may be messages from God or tricks of the eye, but in neither case are we permitted to ignore them.

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.