“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.”

“Why don't we just build you an house outside Hilly?”

“The true story is vicious and multiple and untrue after all. Why do you need it? Don’t ever ask for the true story.”

“She hears the word bell, or orchard, or swallow, and she experiences a strange surprise, like the feel of a coin in the soil. These words make her wistful; they overwhelm her with longing. Not for her orchard, nor the bell in her church, nor the swallows that nest in the eaves of her house. For something else altogether, something she would have forgotten completely. She wonders: Why should these words pierce me, if they are not the remains of a currency I once knew how to spend?”

“Peter,” Ashley asked softly, “Do you know what that was?”“Of course,” Peter said, much affronted. “A thimble.”“No,” said Ashley, staring, “That was a kiss.”“Didn’t it strike you as a little different from other thimbles you’ve had in the past?”Peter looked shifty. “Well, yes.”“Ha!”“It was my first thimble with tongue.” Peter told her with dignity.”

“He was a professor, a lover of stories, and he was building her a library in the same way other men might build their daughters houses.”