“She used to cry roughly three times a year. Now she seemed to cry three times before breakfast. Could that be considered progress?”

“Like any normal cat Madame Phloi lived by the Rule of Three. She resisted any innovation three times before accepting it, tackled an obstacle three times before giving up, and tried each activity three times before tiring of it.”

“She cried for herself, she cried because she was afraid that she herself might die in the night, because she was alone in the world, because her desperate and empty life was not an overture but an ending, and through it all she could see was the rough, brutal shape of a coffin.”

“She put her head down on the table and cried all the tears that she knew she should have cried in the past year and a half. But they weren't ready then, they were now.”

“Three weeks was apparently time enough to fall in love, but not long enough to fall out of love. Meg had this unfortunate truth drummed into her head each morning when she woke, hoping this would be the day that she forgot about Alex, this would be the day she could get on with her life and put Edinburgh behind her. She grimaced. Three weeks, three years, it didn’t make a difference. She would remember.Everything.”

“To eat well in England you should have breakfast three times a day.”