She tried to imagine what Charles would do if another man came up to him and said, "You bring me joy.

It is not wise to give something old and powerful something they care about. And I am very old.

You are a sick, sick man,” I told him. “Thank you,” Ben replied, looking modest.

She wondered that hope was so much harder then despair.

She tried to imagine what Charles would do if another man came up to him and said, "You bring me joy.

Don’t fuss. I love you just as you are, Mercy. I don’t need to swallow you whole, I don’t need to be in your head at all times. I just need to know that you’re there.

During my last year of college I wrote the same ten pages over and over again. Those ten pages became the first few pages of my first novel. I can still recite the opening paragraph from memory - only now I cringe when I do it because they are - surprise! - a classic example of overwriting, in addition to being a more than a little pretentious.