She pressed her hand against her chest. No heart. So where did the love she felt come from?

Children, they're the same everywhere. Greedy little creatures but the best listeners in the world - any world. The very best of all.

I remember the feeling. Whenever my father got so absorbed in a book that we might have been in visible I felt like taking a pair of scissors and cutting it up.

They wouldn't tell Scipio how much of the counterfeit cash was left since, as Riccio put it, 'You're a detective now, after all.

Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar.

Perhaps the story in the book is just the lid on a pan: It always stays the same, but underneath there's a whole world that goes on - developing and changing like our own world.

She wanted to return to her dream. Perhaps it was still somewhere there behind her closed eyelids. Perhaps a little of its happiness still clung like gold dust to her lashes. Don't dreams in fairy tales sometimes leave a token behind?