She closed the book and put her cheek against it. There was still an odor of a library on it, of dust, leather, binding glue, and old paper, one book carrying the smell of hundreds.

When the mountain quaked Like an elbow's nudge Like a shout that something is wrong The people awoke and Knew, yes, knew, that bandits had come

There's nothing more aggravating in the world than the midnight sniffling of the person you've decided to hate.

No one had ever called her wild before. She wanted to be wild now, for him. Wild seemed more enticing then a bowl of berries.

What? Don't British women know how to use their knees?

Uge, save me from the sauce of their loveyness-raso Forest Born

Smell is the voice of the soul.