“My little ankle-strap sandals curled with embarrassment for her.”

“It doesn't feel swollen," he commented, bending his head torward her ankle again. "Does it hurt at all?""Very little. Not nearly as much as my dignity.""In that case, by tomorrow your ankle and your dignity will probably be fine."Still crouching, he cupped her heel in his left hand and reached over to pick up her sandal with his right. Just as he was about to slip the sandal onto her foot, he glanced up at her and his lazy smile sent Lauren's pulse racing as he asked, "Isn't there some fairy tale about a man who searches for the woman whose foot fits into a glass slipper?"She nodded, her eyes bright. "Cinderella.""What happens to me if this slipper fits?""I turn you into a handsome frog," she guipped.”

“I wonder how Admat can be everywhere. Is he in my sandal? Or is he my sandal itself? Why would a god bother to be a sandal? Does he wear shoes or sandals himself, invisible ones?”

“They took to silence. They touched each other without comment and without progression. A hand on a hand, a clothed arm, resting on an arm. An ankle overlapping an ankle, as they sat on a beach, and not removed. One night they fell asleep, side by side... He slept curled against her back, a dark comma against her pale elegant phrase.”

“She only maintains that it is possible, under some circumstances, for a lady to murder her husband; but that a woman who wears ankle-strap shoes and smokes on the street corner, though she may be a joy to all who know her and have devoted her life to charity, could never qualify as a lady.”

“...cursing my heels and debating whether it was faster to stop and take them off--damn ankle straps!--or keep running with the potential neck breakers. Wouldn’t that make a charming epitaph? Here lies Cat. Killed not by fang, but Ferragamos.”