I reached for sleep and drew it round me like a blanket muffling pain and thought together in the merciful dark

The place for truth is not in the facts of a novel; it is in the feelings.

To remember love after long sleep; to turn again to poetry after a year in the market place, or to youth after resignation to drowsy and stiffening age; to remember what once you thought life could hold, after telling over with muddied and calculating fingers what it has offered; this is music, made after long silence. The soul flexes its wings, and, clumsy as any fledgling, tries the air again

It is never wise to turn aside from knowing, however the knowing comes.

Well, what was luck for if it was never to be tempted?

I'm very much to blame for not seeing it before, but who on earth goes about suspecting an impossible outlandish thing like murder? That's something that happens in books, not among people you know.

The sense of smell is the hair-trigger of memory.