“A fit encomium for marital bliss," Beaumont said, putting down his knife and fork. "Dancing to a tune one neither likes nor understands, with a partner who thinks you a cadaver.”

“Tune as the sitthar, neither high nor low, and we will dance away the hearts of men.”

“His teeth sang in their individual sockets like tuning forks, each one pitch-perfect and clear as ethanol.”

“His voice... my nipples are like tuning forks responding to that pitch – that purrrrr.”

“...He danced with a young woman with no hair, but who wore a wig of shining beetles that swarmed and seethed on her head. His third partner complained bitterly whenever Stephen's hand happened to brush her gown; she said it put her gown of its singing; and, when Stephen looked down, he saw that her gown was indeed covered with tiny mouths which opened and sang a little tune in a series of high, errie notes.”

“Sometimes, in a daze, they completely dismantled the cadaver, then found themselves hard put to it to fit the pieces together again.”