“Harriet dreamt of someone well dressed and flamboyant, who spoke like the lead in a black and white film, who drank champagne like other people drank Carling and who could talk about history and philosophy and life for hours, without making themselves sound like an idiot. Someone who made romantic gestures, who was generous to everyone and extravagant towards her. Someone, for preference, who rowed and had the muscles to prove it. When she was really having a bad day, someone with a title. Every time a well-meaning access scheme leaflet tried to reassure her and all the other state school applicants that Oxford wasn’t wall to wall Old Etonians permanently dressed in tuxedos, she died a little inside.”

“She deserves to be kissed by someone who loves her. Someone who spends every waking moment trying to do everything right by her. Someone who would rather die than see her hurt. She doesn't deserve to be kissed by anyone other than me.”

“All along — not only since she left, but for a decade before — I had been imagining her without listening, without knowing that she made as a poor a window as I did. And so I could not imagine her as a person who could feel fear, who could feel isolated in a roomful of people, who could be shy about her record collection because it was too personal to share. Someone who might have read travel books to escape having to live in the town that so many people escape to. Someone who — because no one thought she was a person — had no one to really talk to.”

“She tried to be someone people liked. She tried to be someone people disliked. But all I became was someone who didn't succeed with anything I tried to be.”

“When she looked in the mirror these days, she saw someone she didn't recognize...She saw an old woman trying to be beautiful, her skin dry and her wrinkles like cracks. She looked like a very well-dressed winter apple.”

“And now she knew she could never find love in someone else. She knew the lines she treasured so long from the movie were wrong. There was no use searching for love in someone who was born for her. Even if he existed. Love existed in her own self. Inside her. But to comprehend it, to understand it, to awaken it, she needed the other person. Someone who would pull the right strings that made her sing, someone with whom she could share her feelings, her thoughts, her dreams. It was not just someone with whom she could grow old, someone with whom she could share the murmur of the brook.”