She is no longer I, she is too long ago, she is only she.

Why lock yourself in your own cage when someone is handing you a key?

I mean, evil and boredom. Evil and ennui. Evil and the lack of stimulation. Evil and sluggish blood.

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.

In the end, all disguises must drop.

How poetic you are," she said. "I've a notion that poetry is the highest form of self-deception.

No," she cried, "no, no, I'm not a harem, I'm not a woman, I'm not a person, no.