“Where can we hide in fair weather, we orphans of the storm?”

“In an ideal world, we would have been orphans. We felt like orphans and we felt deserving of the pity that orphans get, but embarrassingly enough, we had parents.”

“Isn't that about an orphan?" I asked. I hated those kinds of books. "You can't avoid orphan stories, child. Every story is an orphaned story. Life is an orphan story. We are all orphaned sooner or later.""In my case, sooner.""Yes, in your case, sooner. But you are strong, and God never gives us more than we can bear.”

“We probably looked like starving orphan children. Hey! We were starving orphan children.”

“A bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain.”

“How little we have, I thought, between us and the waiting cold, the mystery, death--a strip of beach, a hill, a few walls of wood or stone, a little fire--and tomorrow's sun, rising and warming us, tomorrow's hope of peace and better weather . . . What if tomorrow vanished in the storm? What if time stood still? And yesterday--if once we lost our way, blundered in the storm--would we find yesterday again ahead of us, where we had thought tomorrow's sun would rise?”