Despite her cough, Rose was in unusually good spirits. That was irritating. If I’m to trade my life for Rose’s, I’d appreciate her exhibiting a touch of melancholy. Also acceptable would be despair.

Meaning. If you're going to die, you want to find meaning in life. You want to connect the dots.

Witches don’t look like anything. Witches are. Witches do.

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

I’m not really the sacrificing type.

This is what I want. I want people to take care of me. I want them to force comfort upon me. I want the soft-pillow feeling that I associate with memories of being ill when I was younger, soft pillows and fresh linens and satin-edged blankets and hot chocolate. It's not so much the comfort itself as knowing there's someone who wants to take care of you.

Actually, it would be assumed that the young lady had no such impulses at all, but I’ll tell you something: Chocolate melts on my tongue too.