Did I kill him?” I said. “No, miss,” said Robert. “Pity.

You could at least complain,” I say. “I adore complaining. It calms the nerves.

Blast Cecil!” said Eldric. “You have my permission,” I said.

People think me a sort of Florence Nightingale, but I have no heroic qualities. I simply don’t feel very much.

The beach has a language of its own, with its undulating ribbons of silt, the imponderable hieroglyphs of bird tracks. The receding waves catch on innumerable holes in the sand. Bubbles form and fade. A new language, with a new alphabet.

I was asking about lust, wasnʼt I? I was fairly certain of it. But isnʼt love supposed to come before lust? It does in the dictionary.

Father sighed. “Please spare me these arguments of yours.” “Whose arguments should I use?