“Then there's no point in our being logical, is there?" said Jonathan..."What do you mean?" said Lewis and Mrs. Zimmerman at the same time."I mean," he said patiently, "that we're no good at that sort of game. Our game is wild swoops, sudden inexplicable discoveries, cloudy thinking. Knights' jumps instead of files of rooks plowing across the board. So we'd better play our way if we expect to win.”

“You were wearing your hair up like that the day we left for Harbor Springs," he said, his deep voice pitched seductively low. "I like it.""In that case," Lauren said lightly, "I'll start wearing it down."He grinned. "So that's the way we're going to play it,is it?""Play what?""This little game we started yesterday.""I am not playing your game," she said with quiet firmness. "I do not want the prize.”

“The count said in careful English, "That was perhaps not, as you English say, very sporting.""Games are played to win," Cameron said. "And we're Scottish.”

“You remember the word we said when we pressed our hands together, right?"I nodded. Forem. But what does it mean?""Forever,” he said his breath shaky. "It means we're bonded together forever.”

“The way I see it, we're all either Trayvon Martin or we're George Zimmerman. The choice is ours. There's no in-between.”

“It was all so meaningless when I looked at it that way. It was meaningless in the same way as when I stood up from a game and then looked down on the scatter of playing pieces, and realized that they all were just bits of polished stone on a wooden board marked with squares. All the meaning they'd had moments before when I'd been trying to win a game were meanings that I'd imbued them with. Of themselves, neither they nor the board had any significance.”