“Carol, a swing-shift cocktail waitress in the Bird of Paradise's show lounge had gotten home (guesswork, here) around 2:15 - 2:30, poured herself a glass of milk, and had opened the back door of the kitchen for reasons unknown. (Fingerprints were later found on the outside knob that, while smudged, didn't belong to either girl.) She had opened the door, and died. Suddenly, quietly, without disturbing her sleeping roommate only a few feet away.”

“Elizabeth's voice had a door in it. When you opened that door you found another door, and that door opened yet another door. All the doors were nice and led out of her.”

“Shifting in the hospital bed had blown her closet door wide open.”

“Hi." Paul said from her couch, flooding her system with adrenaline. He'd kicked off his shoes and was lounging there as if he had the right to be in her home. "I let myself in. You left the balcony door open." Andrea stopped in her tracks and it took a few seconds to find her tongue. "I never leave my doors unlocked or open." she paused, "and we are three stories up.”

“Her curiosity was too much for her. She felt almost as if she could hear the books whispering on the other side of the half-open door. They were promising her a thousand unknown stories, a thousand doors into worlds she had never seen before.”

“She had died peacefully, in her sleep, after an evening of listening to all of her favorite Fred Astaire songs, one crackling record after another. Once the last chord of the last piece had died out, she had stood up and opened the French doors to the garden outside, perhaps waiting to breathe in the honeysuckle one more time.”