It isn’t hard to find evil in this world. Evil is always more easily imagined than good, somehow.

So he stalked her again. Love makes hunters of us all.

Skibbereen have a hard time at [math]; the best that the smartest of them can do with adding two plus two is guessing: three plus one. Correct, sort of, but not always useful.

It isn't whether you do it well or ill, it's that you do it all.

Forget us, forget us all, it makes no difference now, but don't forget we loved it when we were alive.

Indeed, she often wondered if she were dead, or dying from the inside out, and that was the root of her calm, the reason she could surrender her character.

She dropped her shyness like a nightgown, and in the liquid glare of sunlight on old boards she held up her hands-as if, in the terror of the upcoming skirmish, she had at last understood that she was beautiful. In her own way.