“Why, I've been all over the world, I tell you, and fairly loafed and lolled in every conceivable sort of ease and luxury, but the Soul of me—the wild, restless, breathless, discontented soul of me—never sat down before in all its life—I say, until my frightened hand cuddled into his broken one. I tell you I don't pretend to explain it, I don't pretend to account for it; all I know is—that smothering there under all that horrible wreckage and everything—the instant my hand went home to his, the most absolute sense of serenity and contentment went over me.”
“I just want to tell you something you don't want to hear. All I want is for you to say, why don't you just take me where i've never been before? know you want to hear me catch my breath. I love you till the end.”
“Look at me and tell me you don't want me to kiss you. Tell me you don't like it when I do this," he said, running his hand down my arm. "Tell me you don't like it when I touch your face." HE brushed his hands on both of my cheeks, moving up to my forehead and then back down. HE rubbed both thumbs over my lips. "Tell me you don't like it when I do this." He leaned hisjead closer, stopping just short of my lips. "Tell me to stop and I will. You're in charge, Missy.”
“I would have the taste of poison in my mouth all the days of my life, if I went back home and pretended to be what I was before.”
“You look at me and tell me you think you're some goddamn obligation to me. You look at me and tell me that we're pretending when the connection between us is the most tangible, overpowering thing I've ever felt in my life. If this is pretending, then I damn sure don't want to know what reality is.”
“I stand to leave, but my father says, “Wait!” over the red telephone. “Let me just look at you a minute.” He smiles at me proudly. “I know you been in some trouble, son, but you turned out good. That’s all I ever wanted,” he tells me. Then he puts his hand against the glass and I put my hand against the glass. “I love you,” he says.“I love you, too,” I say back.”