Some say writing is its own reward. I write for money, but writing for money is not so bad, especially when that writing brings you joy.

She still remembered sitting for hours as a little girl and pretending to be a hassock. A foot stool. Because if she could just stay very small, and very quiet, her mother would forget she was there, and then she wouldn't scream about people and places and things that had gone wrong.

One more time, she promised herself. That wasn't too trollopy. She wouldn't be too trollopy. But when they actually got to the guardhouse? Trollopy.

We all think we have time, you know. It's this miracle substance and there seems to be so much of it, and then all of a sudden, it's gone.

He wanted to grow old with her, or not grow old at all.

Sometimes I spend all day in my dressing gown. But if I do dress, I make myself ravishing because then, I feel ravishing.

They were partners. She would always make impulsive decisions and he would make slow, reasoned ones. He would always be a little terrified that she would look at him with the scorn he saw in his mother's eyes. And she would always be a little terrified that he would look at her and not love her enough. In short, they were made for each other.