You're an enemy of art and I pity your ignorance," Domingo said.

I must be overtired', Buttercup managed. 'The excitement and all.' 'Rest then', her mother cautioned. 'Terrible things can happen when you're overtired. I was overtired the night your father proposed.

Good night, Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.

Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.

You could concentrate much more deeply when you were alone with agony.

But just as he knew the sun was obliged to rise each morning in the east, no matter how much a western arisal might have pleased it, so he knew that Buttercup was obliged to spend her love on him. Gold was inviting, and so was royalty, but they could not match the fever in his heart, and sooner or later she would have to catch it. She had less choice than the sun.

The hollowness was in his arms and the world was snowing.