The anticipation and dread he felt at seeing her was also a kind of sensual pleasure, and surrounding it, like an embrace, was a general elation--it might hurt, it was horribly inconvenient, no good might come of it, but he had found out for himself what it was to be in love, and it thrilled him.

Briony began to understand the chasm that lay between an idea and its execution.

The luxury of being half-asleep, exploring the fringes of psychosis in safety.

She loved him, though not at this particular moment.

Love doesn't grow at a steady rate, but advances in surges, bolts, wild leaps, and this was one of those.

Not everything people did could be in a correct, logical order, especially when they were alone.

Novels without female characters were a lifeless desert.