His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.

Sunday afternoons are the longest afternoons of all.

Day and night she had drudged and struggled and thrown her soul into her work, and there was not much of her left over for anything else. Being human, she suffered from this lack and did what she could to make up for it. If she passed the evening bent over a table in the library and later declared that she had spent that time playing cards, it was as though she had managed to do both those things. Through the lies, she lived vicariously. The lies doubled the little of her existence that was left over from work and augmented the little rag end of her personal life.

Death is the great gamer with a sleeve of tricks.

Once you have lived with another, it is a great torture to have to live alone.

It was like she was cheated. Only nobody had cheated her. So there was nobody to take it out on. However, just the same she had that feeling. Cheated.

I was like a cat always climbing the wrong tree.