[Harry] had always suffered from a vague restlessness, a longing for adventure that she told herself severely was the result of reading too many novels when she was a small child.

He laughed, tried to make it into a cough, inhaled at exactly the wrong moment, and then really did cough.

I love you. I will love you till the stars crumble, which is a less idle threat than is usual to lovers on parting.

It seems to me further, that it is very odd that fate should leave so careful a trail, and spend so little time preparing the one that must follow it.

She fell asleep, leaning on his chest, and he edged her a little off a particularly painful bruise, leaned his head back against the tree he had propped them up against, and closed his own eyes.

If you wish, I shall go personally to your City and knock together the heads of Perlith and Galooney.

With the knowledge of her aloneness came a rush of self-declaration: “I will not be nothing.”