“His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets.”

“Little notes, scrawled on half-sheets of paper, and letters, when he was away, page after page, intimate, their news. Her voice, echoing through the house, and down the garden, careless and familiar like the writing in the book.And I had to call him Maxim.”

“His voice was different in the small, intimate spaces that existed when they were pressed together like this; it was sweet with a familiar sort of sleepiness, a voice just for her that the rest of the world didn't get to hear.”

“She pronounced the word married as if her voice caressed it. It seemed a rustling covert leading to enchanted glades.”

“...and Jo laid the rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he finds himself alone in the work-a-day world again.”

“Hello, Samael,” she said, her voice like rustling silk. Sam was speechless. How did such a creature even know his name? He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. What to say? He had never been good at talking to girls –”