The key to contentment was to never ask why; she had learned that long ago.

The facts didn't matter. Their stories mattered, and each of their stories belonged to each of them alone.

Or maybe, he thought, returning to the boxes, it was part of being Catholic--you were made to feel guilty about everything

But what could you do? Only keep going. People kept going; they had been doing it for thousands of years. You took the kindness offered, letting it seep as far in as it could go, and the remaining dark crevices you carried around with you, knowing that over time they might change into something almost bearable.

He wanted to put his arms around her, but she had a darkness that seemed to stand beside her like an acquaintance that would not go away.

Oh, gosh, Olive. I'm so embarrassed." "No need to be," Olive tells her. "We all want to kill someone at some point." (179)

And it was too late. No one wants to believe something is too late, but it is always becoming too late, and then it is.