I can't write if someone else is in the house, not even the cleaning woman.

I know you have it in you, Guy," Anne said suddenly at the end of a silence, "the capacity to be terribly happy.

For neither life nor nature cares if justice is ever done or not.

What was it to love someone, what was love exactly, and why did it end or not end? Those were the real questions, and who could answer them?

I find the public passion for justice quite boring and artificial.

But there were too many points at which the other self could invade the self he wanted to preserve, and there were too many forms of invasion: certain words, sounds, lights, actions his hands or feet performed, and if he did nothing at all, heard and saw nothing, the shouting of some triumphant inner voice that shocked him and cowed him.

Then Carol slipped her arm under her neck, and all the length of their bodies touched fitting as if something had prearranged it. Happiness was like a green vine spreading through her, stretching fine tendrils, bearing flowers through her flesh. She had a vision of a pale white flower, shimmering as if seen in darkness, or through water. Why did people talk of heaven, she wondered