... and with my last thought I felt some real sympathy for those poor chickens.

I cannot write to anyone outside myself--if I tried, it would be a horrible story, flat and lifeless. I write to myself. That's the only person I'm trying to please.

Look no farther than your hand, Make a choice and take a stand.

He looked at her, and the clarity of his dark eyes struck her heart with a sensation of a wound touched.

Miss Hayes, have you stopped to consider that you might have this all backward? That in fact you are my fantasy?

Careful with the accusations of insanity, oh my lady whose home is a tower with windows of brick, all for the sake of some skinny-ankled, laugh-prone boy of a khan.

I am not sure I am ready to know what I think about that, so I dare not write it out.