The cat that Prim got hates me, I think partly because I tried to drown it.

If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush.

Im still betting on you. - Cinna.

My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in.

Maybe . . . because for the first time . . . there was a chance I could keep him,” I say. “So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?” “Put you somewhere you can't get hurt.” And when he kisses me, people in the room actually sigh.

You'll never be able to let him go. You'll always feel wrong about being with me.

Your favorite colour . . . it's green?" "That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange." "Orange?" He seems unconvinced. "Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once." "Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you." But more words tumble out. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces.