“She had a horror he would die at night.And sometimes when the light began to fadeShe could not keep from noticing how whiteThe birches looked — and then she would be afraid,Even with a lamp, to go about the houseAnd lock the windows; and as night wore onToward morning, if a dog howled, or a mouseSqueaked in the floor, long after it was goneHer flesh would sit awry on her. By dayShe would forget somewhat, and it would seemA silly thing to go with just this dreamAnd get a neighbor to come at night and stay.But it would strike her sometimes, making tea:_She had kept that kettle boiling all night long, for company._”

“This time her heart would not break, even though it would hurt and hurt for a long time to come. Perhaps for the rest of her life. But it would not break. She had the strength to go on alone.”

“To know of the existence of evil, true evil that corrupted the world, had forever altered her heart and mind. If she had chosen a different path, she wouldn't have slept another night. Her head would have been restless as she thought only of the horrors that might be creeping outside her door, waiting to rend her flesh. She would not live a life as the hunted; she would be the hunter.”

“Tell me about the farm," she pleaded as drops of blood began to appear on her hand. "The farm?""The farm that Finnikin the peasant would have lived on with his bride.""Evanjalin. That was her name. Did I mention that?"She laughed through a sob. "No, you didn't.""They would plant rows upon rows of wheat and barley, and each night they would sit under the stars to admire what they owned. Oh, and they would argue. She believes the money made would be better spent on a horse, and he believes they need a new barn. But then later they would forget all their anger and he would hold her fiercely and never let her go.""And he'd place marigolds in her hair?" she asked. He clasped her hands against his and watched her blood seep through the lines of his skin. "And he would love her until the day he died," he said.”

“When she was younger, she felt that he wanted to know everything about her, but she was sometimes afraid to tell too much. She was afraid he would know her too well, that he would find some weakness in her, some element that would turn him away, maybe even a quality she didn't even realize she possessed.”

“When I met a truly beautiful girl, I would tell her that if she spent the night with me, I would write a novel or a story about her. This usually worked; and if her name was to be in the title of the story, it almost always worked. Then, later, when we'd passed a night of delicious love-making together, after she’d gone and I’d felt that feeling of happiness mixed with sorrow, I sometimes would write a book or story about her. Sometimes her character, her way about herself, her love-making, it sometimes marked me so heavily that I couldn't go on in life and be happy unless I wrote a book or a story about that woman, the happy and sad memory of that woman. That was the only way to keep her, and to say goodbye to her without her ever leaving.”