The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day's last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.

Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains.

Lie to me by the moonlight. Do a fabulous story.

Was it the infinite sadness of her eyes that drew him or the mirror of himself that he found in the gorgeous clarity of her mind?

What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?

I'll drink your champagne. I'll drink every drop of it, I don't care if it kills me.

Look at that,' she whispered, and then after a moment: 'I'd like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.