“You'll never forget," Alden said, for the first time the pure evil of his soul showing in his eyes. His voice was bloodcurdingly gentle as he added, "And neither will I. Nothing feels as good as your own flesh and blood.”

“William," the professor said, softly, "what now is your weapon?"...."Truth," he whispered, his voice rasping. He cleared his throat. "Truth is my sword."...."And what now is your defense?" Colour returned to Billy's face, and his jaw tightened. His voice surged with emotion. "Faith...faith is my shield.”

“A man must walk only his own path...Never another's or his feet will grow tired and sore. And he will feel lost even when he arrives.”

“We should be able to time travel," he said. "Back to an age when society was kinder to the Rubenesque woman.""Hmph." I wasn't able to say much."I'd love that. I love softness. Love curves. The more, the better.""D'you really?""Why wouldn't I? Think of all the words associated with a bit of extra flesh. Generous. Ample. Voluptuous. Bountiful. Beautiful, sensual words. Contrast them with their opposites. Mean. Insufficient. Meager. Miserly."I snuffled into his velvet jerkin or doublet or whatever it was and looked up at him. "You should be a professional morale booster," I told him. "You're very kind to say all this but --""Kind?" he burst out. "No, I'm not kind! I don't feel sorry for you. I want you.”

“... he said it felt like walking into another century, being there, looking up at the mullion windows, all darkened now, and the castellated towers that rose up out of the clutch of the ivy. "And you," he said, "you look like the heroine of a nineteenth-century novel, with your beautifully serious face and your grave, grey eyes. So do you have a suitably romantic story to tell?”

“His hand came out and captured her by the chin. She froze, finding it hard to breathe as he gently raised her face to meet his gaze.”

“A few miles away across the East River was the apartment he could never get used to, the job where he had nothing to do, the dozen or so people he knew slightly and cared about not at all: a fabric of existence as blank and seamless as the freshly plaster wall he passed. Soon his wife would return from New Jersey. Soon everyone would be back, and things would go on much as they had before. From the street outside came the sound of laughter and shouting, bottles breaking, voices droning in the warm air, and children playing far past their bedtime. It all meant nothing whatever to Lowell. Standing in the parlor of a house no longer his, listening to the voices of people whose lives were closed to him forever, contemplating a future much like his past, he realized that it was finally too late for him. Everything had gone wrong, and he had succeeded at nothing, and he was never going to have any kind of life at all.”