“His voice ripped through her, low, soft, and a little husky- like the hushed crackling of an old fashioned record player just before the music starts”

“Miranda looked up at him through a haze of desire, her will consumed by a fierce crackling heat, just like the dry twigs of the old woman's fire.”

“I like you,” he rumbled. His voice was low and husky, and it sounded as if he hadn’t spoken in awhile. Unable to stop myself, the words just spilled from my lips. “And I should care because?”

“Let's get married,' he would say to her, through the hush of the hallway, his voice sounding like a dusting cloth on the first spring cleaning.”

“The "feminine" woman is forever static and childlike. She is like the ballerina in an old-fashioned music box, her unchanging features tiny and girlish, her voice tinkly, her body stuck on a pin, rotating in a spiral that will never grow.”

“Her eyes were distant, and she seemed to be listening to that voice that first told her the story, a mother, sister, or aunt. Then her voice, like her singing, cut through the crickets and crackling fire.”