It was the way she felt when she looked at the stars.

Thanks,” I say, and Finn looks uncomfortable. Mum used to say he was like a faerie; he didn't like to be thanked. I add, “Sorry.

And I told you before, I'll sell you any of the thoroughbreds.” “I didn't make any of those thoroughbreds. I didn't make them what they are.” “You made all of them what they are.” I don't look at him. “None of them made me who I am.

They were always walking away from him. But he never seemed able to walk away from them.

As always, there was an all-American war hero look to him, coded in his tousled brown hair, his summer-narrowed hazel eyes, the straight nose that ancient Anglo-Saxons had graciously passed on to him. Everything about him suggested valor and power and a firm handshake.

whether they'll write the story of my life as a tragedy or an epic fantasy... I was wondering if it was going to be a kiss at the end, or sad music and a sweeping camera shot over the fields I once roamed freely. I'm hoping for the kiss, but expecting the sweeping camera shot.

I remember being intrigued by the idea of school-in-a-box, just-add-water-and-Sam.