“He sighs. “If it’s any consolation, I’m not overly thrilled about being away from my wife for so long, either.”“She a cougar?” Cora asks.Karl stares at her, mouth open.“I’m just saying,” she says defensively. “He looks like the sort to snag a cougar.”She did not just say that. “Cora!”“My wife is off limits to you.” He shakes a finger at her. And then, after a moment, “She’s not a cougar.”Cora cackles brightly.”

“They really did you over,” she says, after peering at my bruised face. “This way, we’ll get you sorted out.” She’s not friendly, just abrupt and sharp, like she’s dealing with another problem in her long day.”

“He stared at her neck. Realization pulsed. He was looking at the bite he had given her. A hard length was growing against her hip. “So, is that your long, scaly, reptilian tail, or are you just happy to see me?” No, she did not just say that. Did she?”

“She sighed. “Go on, say it. I shouldn’t have come.”“You shouldn’t have come.” He looked sideways at her and gave her a fleeting grin. “But I’m glad you did.”

“In the Blue Room, Cora Cash was trying to concentrate on her book. Cora found most novels hard to sympathise with -- all those plain governesses -- but this one had much to recommend it. The heroine was 'handsome, clever, and rich', rather like Cora herself. Cora knew she was handsome -- wasn't she always referred to in the papers as 'the divine Miss Cash'? She was clever -- she could speak three languages and could handle calculus. And as to rich, well, she was undoubtedly that. Emma Woodhouse was not rich in the way that she, Cora Cash, was rich. Emma Woodhouse did not lie on a lit à la polonaise once owned by Madame du Barry in a room which was, but for the lingering smell of paint, an exact replica of Marie Antoinette's bedchamber at le petit Trianon. Emma Woodhouse went to dances at the Assembly Rooms, not fancy dress spectaculars in specially built ballrooms. But Emma Woodhouse was motherless which meant, thought Cora, that she was handsome, clever, rich and free.”

“[Cora:]‘Michael—that guy from the restaurant the other night—he works over there. He runs the prehistoric department.’‘I’m surprised,’ Veda said. ‘At what?’‘That you’re dating someone who reads.”