“He wiped his face with his handkerchief, for he was quite warm from the exertion of being Chairman of the World. It had taken more running and leaping and sliding than he had imagined.”

“Already he was a very different hobbit from the one that had run out without a pocket-handkerchief from Bag-End long ago. He had not had a pocket-handkerchief for ages.”

“He had prepared his death much earlier, in his imagination, unaware that his imagination, more creative than he, was planning the reality of that death.”

“Meg reached out to Erik before he could turn away. "Are you...?" He didn't let her finish. Instead he reached inside the carriage and placed his hand tenderly behind her neck drawing her to his face. He placed hi lips softly, yet passionately on her. Hardly had he withdrawn from hers then he whispered, "Forgive me, Meg. Forgive me for wanting...?" "Ssshhh. You're here. I'm here." She raised her handkerchief and wiped the lone tear that had escaped his mask.”

“Muttering a curse, he wiped his face with a towel and wondered why everyone suddenly felt that they had to offer an opinion on his love life, although he was fairly sure he had never asked for anyone's views on the matter.”

“He was tender with her. He wiped her eyelids with his handkerchief, not noticing how soiled it was. It was stained with ink, crumpled, stuck together. Her lids were large and tender and the handkerchief was stiff, not nearly soft enough. He moistened a corner in his mouth. He was painfully aware of the private softness of her skin, of how the eyes trembled beneath their coverings. He dried the tears with an affection, a particularity, that had never been exercised before. It was a demonstration of 'nature.' He was a birth-wet foal rising to his feet.”