“You don't know about falling off cliffs, Prep­pie,' she said. 'You never fell off one in your god­damn life.''Yeah,' I said, re­cov­er­ing the power of speech. 'When I met you.”

“I didn't know you were re­lated to Se­wall Boat House too,' she said.'Yeah. I come from a long line of wood and stone.”

“Jenny, if you're so con­vinced I'm a loser, why did you bull­doze me into buy­ing you cof­fee?'She looked me straight in the eye and smiled.'I like your body,' she said.”

“I think the Peace Corps is a fine thing, don't you?" he said."Well," I replied, "it's certainly better than War Corps.”

“What term do you employ when you speak of your progenitor?"I answered with the term I'd always wanted to employ."Sonovabitch.""To his face?" she asked."I never see his face.""He wears a mask?""In a way, yes. Of stone. Of absolute stone.”

“But what does he do to qualify as a sonovabitch?” Jenny asked.“Make me”, I replied.“Beg pardon?”“Make me”, I repeated.Her eyes widened like saucers. “You mean like incest?” she asked.“Don’t give me your family problems, Jen. I have enough of my own.”“Like what, Oliver?” she asked, “like just what is it he makes you do?”“The ‘right things’”, I said. “What’s wrong with the ‘right things’?” she asked, delighting in the apparent paradox.”

“Either way I don't come first, which for some stupid reason bothers hell out of me, having grown up with the notion that I always had to be number one. Family heritage, don't you know?”