“Oh, Cathy! Oh, my life! how can I bear it?" was the first sentence he uttered, in a tone that did not seek to disguise his despair. And now he stared at her so earnestly that I thought the very intensity of his gaze would bring tears into his eyes; but they burned with anguish: they did not melt.”

“I could not dream a better you.” Oh my God. Oh… my… God. Did he just say that? I stared into his warm eyes. He just said that. And that was so sweet, so unexpected but so welcome, my breath arrested and all I could do was continue staring at him. He wasn’t done. “A better wife, a better queen. Not even in a dream could I create better than you.”

“What do you think?” I asked, a teasing smile curving my lips. “Did we know each other in another life?”He gave a faint smile. “I can guarantee it.”I looked up at him, surprised by his seriousness. “Oh really?” I said, cocking an eyebrow coyly, “So what was I like, oh-expert-on-my-past-life?”A smile touched his lips. As he thought, he seemed to be in another place.When he came out of his trance, he answered, “Similar to how you are now. Smart,funny, stunningly beautiful . . . and you were a horrible pool player then too.” He laughed as I punched him in the shoulder.“Very funny,” I said.“Your punches used to hurt less though.”

“Honestly, Edward." I felt a thrill go through me as I said his name, and I hated it. "I can't keep up with you. I thought you didn't want to be my friend.""I said it would be better if we weren't friends, not that I didn't want to be.""Oh, thanks, now that's all cleared up." Heavy sarcasm. I realized I had stopped walking again. We were under the shelter of the cafeteria roof now, so I could more easily look at his face. Which certainly didn't help my clarity of thought."It would be more . . . prudent for you not to be my friend," he explained. "But I'm tired of trying to stay away from you, Bella."His eyes were gloriously intense as he uttered that last sentence, his voice smoldering. I couldn't remember how to breathe.”

“I was not staring at you,” he told his plate. I leaned over. “Did you hear that, Dingane’s lunch? He was not staring at you.”He looked up at me crossly. “I was not staring at you.”“I never said you were.” “I was merely explaining that Henry was exaggerating. I did not stare at you.”“Okay,” I stated, implying in my tone that he had done just that.“I didn’t. I-I wasn’t.” “I believe you,” I told him“I may have looked at you a few times to make sure you were doing your job.”“Oh, I see then.”“But I certainly wasn’t staring.”“We’ve established that you were not staring.”He breathed deeply a few times, his eyes burning into mine. “Good.”He’d definitely been staring.”

“Sometimes the thought of his mother working so hard while he did nothing would come suddenly upon his and he would rush off and try to help her, but whatever he did turned out wrong. ...So that it always ended in his mother saying, 'Oh, run along for goodness' sakes, and let me get on with my work.' And then Jack would go and lie on his front...and make up pretty poems about the Dignity of Labor, or about how dear and good mothers are.”