You want me to say something? Okay. Sometimes I think I am what you made me. And sometimes I don’t know who I am at all. And either way I’m not happy.

She can’t help it. She loves the con. I tell myself I’m not like her, but I have to admit I love it too.

Greg stands up, wiping his mouth. "I saw your mother's trial in the paper, Sharpe. I know you're just like her." "If I was, I would make you beg to blow me," I sneer.

Jewels, lies, slips of paper, dried flowers, memories of thing long past, useless quotations, idle hands, beads, buttons, and mischief.

He was as honest as any criminal can hope to be.

The truth is messy. It's raw and uncomfortable. You can't blame people for preferring lies.

You carried my heart in your hands tonight," he said. "But I have felt as if you carried it long before that.