“Are you scared?”“Of what?” “Dying.” Jemma was nothing, if she was not blunt.“I’m not expecting to die, Jemma. I’m expecting to have treatment, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, whatever it takes, but I’m expecting to come through this.”

“The last person Jemma expected to welcome into her bedchamber that night was her husband. Though of course she would have to invite him in at some point if they were to embark on their heir-making activities.”

“I’m not scared of dying. Not at all. The only thing I’m scared of is not living while I’m still alive.”

“I’m calling because that’s what women expect men to do. You expect us to call at least once a day, proving we’re capable of thinking of nothing but you when we’re not. We’re thinking of work.”

“My expectations are sky low, because I’m standing on a mountaintop.”

“If you expect others to think for you, then you expect others to live your life for you. And I’m sorry, but the only person I’ll let live my life for me is my clone. He thinks like me, so I’m OK with him thinking for me.”