I take your hand, brother, so that you may go in peace. Will had opened his blue eyes that never lost their colour over all the passing years, and looked at Jem and then Tessa, and smiled, and died, with Tessa's head on his shoulder and and his hand in Jem's.

Do you have a lot of other profound thoughts like that? Blood is blood? A toaster is a toaster? A Gelatinous Cube is a Gelatinous Cube?

He landed on his back amid a tangled pile of clothes. "Isabelle," Simon protested weakly, "do you really think this is going to make you feel any better?" "Trust me," Isabelle said, placing a hand on his chest, just over his unbeating heart. "I feel better already.

There are so many worse things than death. Not to be loved or not to be able to love: that is worse.

Well, you'll have to wait till tomorrow. I'm out of commission." (he points to his shirt) "Look. Jammies.

I'm trying to figure out how someone could live in a brothel for a month and not notice. You must be terribly dull-witted." Tessa glared. "If it helps at all, it seemed to be quite a high-class establishment. Nicely furnished, fairly clean..." "Sounds as if you've visited your fair share of brothels," Tessa said, sourly. "Making a study of them?" "More of a hobby," said Will, and smiled like a bad angel.

Sometimes minor characters are based on people I know, on friends of mine. But I'm not writing a thinly veiled version of my own life.