Life is a book, and there are a thousand pages I have not read. I would read them together with you, as many as I can, before I die -" She put her hand against his chest, just over his heart, and felt its beat against her palm, a unique time signature that was all its own. "I only wish you would not speak of dying," she said. "But even for that, yes, I know how you are with your words, and, Will- I love all of them. Every word you say. The silly ones, the mad ones, the beautiful ones, and the ones that are only for me. I love them, and I love you.

Are you the one with the blue eyes?" "Actually, my eyes are usually described as golden...and luminous.

...In Paris she found Magnus, who was living in a garret apartment and paiting, an occupation for which he had no aptitude whatsoever. He let her sleep on a mattress by the window, and in the night, when she woke up screaming for Will, he came and put his arms around her, smelling of turpentine. "The first one is always the hardest," he said. "The first?" "The first one you love who dies," he said. "It gets easier, after.

Of course, the guests were also staring because they know of my relationship with Camille, and are wondering what we might be doing here in the library... alone." He wiggled his eyebrows at Tessa.

Wasn't it? Is loyalty still a commendable quality when it is misdirected?

Maybe I want a black eye. Did you think of that?

Who said we were owed happiness?