“The dowager rose and slipped from her pew. There was the sound of tearing silk as she threw up her arms to embrace her son. Then:"Oh, Rupert, darling," she exclaimed in tones of theatrical despair, "don't you see? The game's up!”

“Rehv swooped down with his long arms and gathered her up against him, tucking her with vital care to his chest. Ducking his head to hers, his voice was deep and grave."I never thought I would see you again."As he shuddered, she lifted her hands up to his torso. After holding herself back for a moment...she embraced him as fully as he did her."You smell the same," she said rought, putting her nose right into the collar of his fine silk shirt. "Oh...God, you smell the same.”

“Like a girl, a baby running after her mother, begging to be picked up, and she tugs on her skirts, holding her back as she tries to hurry off—all tears, fawning up at her, till she takes her in her arms… That’s how you look, Patroclus, streaming live tears.”

“And then she frowned, and shook her head, then put her arms around him once more, pressing her face into his shoulder, making a noise that sounded almost like rage.'What's up?' he asked.'Nothing. Oh, nothing. Just...' She looked up at him. 'I thought I'd finally got rid of you.''I don't think you can.' he said”

“How she loved you, her bubeleh, her boychik, her darling, but there was something cloying in that love, something theatrical and selfish, and you knew it and, as soon as you were big enough, you kept her at a safe distance.”

“In those hours when the night is still dark and cold, we see Alokananda waking up to the faint sound of stifled sobs. The sheets besides her are creaseless, sleepless. She gets up silently, her body: blank, a patchwork of frugal impulses. She gathers the warmth of her Pashmina shawl around her, the shawl that she knows still hides threads from a shirt or two of his: remnants of embraces, once feisty and long forgotten.’('Left from Dhakeshwari')”