I know," he said, looking down at himself self-consciously. "I am not-I mean, I look-" "Beautiful," she said, and she meant it. "You look beautiful, James Carstairs.

Looking for an entirely reliable informant is like looking for a chaste mistress.

Maybe that was why she couldn't cry, she realized, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling. Because what was the point in crying when there was no one there to comfort you? And what was worse, when you couldn't even comfort yourself?

There was an electric anger in his gaze, and a sort of challenge that made Simon long to hit him with something heavy. Like a pickup truck.

Are you, monsieur, a man of your word?" "It really depends upon the word," Magnus said. "There are so many wonderful words.

I feel myself diminished, parts of me spiralling away into the darkness, that which is good and honest and true - If you hold it away from yourself long enough, do you lose it entirely? If no one cares for you at all, do you even really exist?

Hi, I'm one of the knife-carrying hooligans you met last night in Pandemonium? I'm afraid I made a bad impression and was hoping you'd give me a chance to make it up to-" "SIMON!