Statues lined the stairs and stood, dotted across the roof. But they had been brutalized by time and the weather. Some were missing arms. Many had no faces. Once they had been saints and angels. Two hundred years standing in London had turned them into cripples.

I don't think my father was a bad man, all in all.

What were you going to do with it?” McCain asked. "I just thought it might come in useful.” "Were you planning to attack me?” "No. But that’s a good idea.

Look at self-satisfied pop singers or greasy, semi-literate athletes. People worship them. Why?” "Because they’re talented.

He had tattooed all of the names of the men he had killed on his body...unfortunately he had run out of room.

Smiling back at her, it occurs to me that I've never met a mean librarian.

We live in a world with so many dangers that we have to be careful whom we trust.