“She sat down at the table and spent a good hour talking about her husband. She told Judith how they'd met, how he relentlessly pursued her, and finished by mentioning just a hundred or two of his special qualities.The only thing the man wasn't capable of was walking on water… yet. Judith made that comment when her friend paused for breath.”

“She was in a terrible marriage and she couldn't talk to anyone. He used to hit her, and in the beginning she told him that if it ever happened again, she would leave him. He swore that it wouldn't and she believed him. But it only got worse after that, like when his dinner was cold, or when she mentioned that she'd visited with one of the neighbors who was walking by with his dog. She just chatted with him, but that night, her husband threw her into a mirror.”

“deep down...she's a good woman...you should be proud of her." When I told my mom about this, she just looked very sad because he could never say those things to her. Not ever. Not even when he walked her down the aisle.”

“Papa, do you like my new friend?" Frances Catherine asked when they were halfway across the field."I surely do.""Can I keep her?""For the love of...No, you can't keep her. She isn't a puppy. You can be her friend, though," he hastily added before his daughter could argue with him."Forever, papa?"She 'd asked her father that question, but Judith answered her. "Forever," she shyly whispered.Frances Catherine reached across her father's chest to take hold of Judith's hand. "Forever," she pledged.”

“He shrugged. "I was...thinking.""About what?""The fires of purgatory."She had to sit down. He wasn't making any sense now. "What does that mean?" she asked."Patrick told me he would walk through the fires of purgatory if he had to in order to please his wife."She went over to the bed and sat down on the side. "And?" she prodded when he didn't continue.He stripped out of his clothing and walked over to her. He pulled her to her feet and stared down to her."And I have only just realized I would do the same for you.”

“They couldn't talk. They were not good talkers, either of them. And once, long ago now, she had bought a notebook for a course. It lay empty and forgotten on the kitchen table until one afternoon, when she had gone out to the shops and he was worried that she would be killed by a bus or by lightning, he opened the notebook and he wrote lines about how he loved her, the way he loved her, about his fucking heart and crap like that, about his body brimful and his scrambled head. All that. She came back from the shops. He left the notebook where it was, and he didn't mention it. And it wasn't until about a week later that he noticed it again, and he flicked it open, and he saw his lines followed by lines from her. She'd written words that she had never said. He sat down. He read them over and over for a long time. Then he wrote a paragraph for her to find.”