“Did the rhythm of the train on the tracks somehow unravel her and make her behave out of character? Was she altered in transit, when her feet were not upon the ground?”

“It was her work of art, her poem and her prayer, to repeat this story, low and precipitately, as if she were in the confessional. You felt that she came to it quite naturally, without transition, so completely did it posses her whenever they were alone.”

“She had to get a hold of herself. She had to run. Did she have a chance of making it out alive? Something told her “no.” Definitely no. The chamber exit, a narrow doorway, led to an even narrower passage that would dump her back into the dark jungle. She wouldn’t make it two feet before he barreled down on her with those powerful thighs. Yes, powerful thighs. Ummm. She ground her palm into her forehead. Tramp! Get a hold of yourself.”

“My bottom is my deliquent daughter. I lavish praise upon her cheeks when she's well behaved and when she gets out of control, I pretend she isn't mine.”

“Somehow she could always think better when all her hair was out of her face. Stupid, but true.”

“Indeed, she often wondered if she were dead, or dying from the inside out, and that was the root of her calm, the reason she could surrender her character.”