“Ronelle knew Dallas would not stay to eat. She often reminded Ronelle never to eat anything at potluck dinners or bake sales. One person hating the town could wipe out the entire population with poison. Looking around, she saw everyone eating and had a horrible thought. If they all died, that would leave only her mother and her in town. While her mother stopped to talk to Willie Davis, Ronelle slipped a piece of corn bread into her pocket. It would be all in crumbs by the time she got home, but she planned to eat it. Just in case.”

“As she wove in and out of all the people - rushing, talking, eating, laughing; some in clumps, some alone - she realized that no one, no one at all in the airport, or on the entire planet for that matter, knew her thoughts, knew what she was carrying inside her head and heart. And at that very minute, what was inside her head and heart made her feel as though there was no one else in the whole world she would rather be.”

“Your woman tells me you will hunt me down and eat my marrow while I live.""Did she?" Charles looked at her, and she saw the approval in his face. She doubted anyone else would have read anything at all. His voice was a caress, just for her. "Would you like that, love?”

“You're lucky your mother died,' she said.I didn't like that. 'I'm lucky my mother died?'Between sobs she said, 'Your mother would have stayed if she could. My mother chose to leave me. She's still out there somewhere. I wish she had died instead.'I sat down next to her and put my arm around her. 'I'll never leave you.'She laid her head on my shoulder. 'I know.”

“In her way, she was a hard one. Faith in any sort of natural justice was nothing but a night light; she knew of that. Whatever she did, she would end the same way with everyone does: flat on her back with a tube in her nose, wondering, "Is this all?”

“If this was adulthood, the only improvement she could detect in her situation was that now she could eat dessert without eating her vegetables.”

“There was hardly a touch of earth in her love for Clare. To her sublime trustfulness he was all that goodness could be—knew all that a guide, philosopher, and friend should know. She thought every line in the contour of his person the perfection of masculine beauty, his soul the soul of a saint, his intellect that of a seer. The wisdom of her love for him, as love, sustained her dignity; she seemed to be wearing a crown. The compassion of his love for her, as she saw it, made her lift up her heart to him in devotion. He would sometimes catch her large, worshipful eyes, that had no bottom to them looking at him from their depths, as if she saw something immortal before her.”