I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.

She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.

... people who'd led dull and blameless lives did not give thanks for second chances.

Oh, there was harm indeed for a young lady flattered by the brief attentions of a handsome man.

Gerry?' Laurel had to strain to hear thought the noise on the other end of the line. 'Gerry? Where are you?' 'London. A phone booth on Fleet Street.' 'The city still has working phone booths?' 'It would appear so. Unless this is the Tardis, in which case I'm in serious trouble.

There’s something about hospital walls; though only made of bricks and plaster, when you’re inside them the noise, the reality of the teeming city beyond, disappears; it’s just outside the door, but it might as well be a magical land far, far away.

His words had tossed the book that was her life into the air and the pages had been blown into disarray, could never be put back together to tell the same story.