“In fiction, beauty was run-of-the-mill.”

“Choosing between day and night. Edgar and Heathcliff.”

“For a bookworm like Mother, a Brontë novel sister was better than a biological one.”

“At seven, I didn't insist on my version of the world.”

“Still waters run deep.”

“He closed the damn door and turned and stopped, looking at her. “Sometimes,” he said softly, and stopped, then started again, “I often wonder why human men are so fixated on how a woman looks when there’s so much more to explore, and so many kinds of beauty—why obsess over one particular version? But sometimes, when I look at you, I understand."And sometimes, when he looked at her the way he was now, she was beautiful. Not just okay. Not even really pretty. Beautiful.”

“To be fair, it's not just cycling— the term "sporty" isn't used to describe me. I don't run unless something is chasing me, and I have some kind of visual-spatial ball deficiency.”