People tend to overestimate my character," I say quietly. "They think that because I'm small, or a girl, or a Stiff, I can't possibly be cruel. But they're wrong.

You look older.” “Yes, well. The passage of time tends to do that to a person.

He doesn’t scowl, but his mouth is so tense that I know he’s angry with me. 'Don’t be an idiot,' he says. 'An idiot?' Is he talking about the blanket? 'You were lying.

'Divergent' was my utopian world. I mean, that wasn't the plan. I never even set out to write dystopian fiction, that's just what I had when I was finished. At the beginning, I was just writing about a place I found interesting and a character with a compelling story, and as I began to build the world, I realized that it was my utopia.

His hand touches my waist, steadies me. The touch sends a shock through my body, and all my insides burn like his fingers ignited them. I pull close to him, pressing my body against his, and lift my head to kiss him.

Human reason can excuse any evil.

I get up, because I’m supposed to, but if it were up to me, I’d stay in my seat for the rest of time.