“It is a question of will, Mr. Wells," he said, striving to imbue his slurred voice with a tone of authority. "That's all.”

“That's our plan? We're going to walk fifty kilometers, right past the Germans, to a poultry collective that maybe didn't get burned down, grab a dozen eggs, and come home?" "Well, anything would sound ridiculous if said it in that tone of voice." "Tone of....I'm asking you a question!”

“...authority is the unmistakeable tone in the voice of a true writer...”

“I'll come back to get you, too, okay?""Why?" he snapped."Because," she said with a gasp, unable to fathom the source of his question, or his tone. "Because I love you, that's why.”

“This is all quite fascinating," Grimalkin said, his voice slurring in my ears, "but instead of posing and scratching the ground like rutting peacocks, perhaps you should look to the girl.”

“I would like you to have it, Mr. Wells" he said, presenting him with the basket,"to remind you that everything is a question of wills”