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

She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.

She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.

I'm good with words, but not the spoken kind; I've often thought what a marvelous thing it would be if I could only conduct relationships on paper.

Cassandra always hid when she read, though she never quite knew why. It was as if she couldn't shake the guilty suspicion that she was being lazy, that surrendering herself so completely to something so enjoyable must surely be wrong. But surrender she did. Let herself drop through the rabbit hole and into a tale of magic and mystery.

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.

If you don't stop apologizing, you're going to convince me you've done something wrong.