“Do I look like I need a fucking group hug?”

“Boy I need a hug (boy I need a hug) 'Cause my heart stops without you There's something about you”

“And then he hugs me. Really hugs me. Like he thinks that there's only one of me and I'm special and I'm enough for him. Like he doesn't need anything else. Like he was alone and then I came along.”

“Don't do this to me, Eliza. Please. I need you.” I looked at Paul. He was crying. “You don't need me,” I said, wondering whether or not I believed it. He gripped my face and kissed me. But it was a hard, painful kiss. A severe and bitter kiss. A kiss that seemed so black, so final, it was like death. “Happy fucking Birthday.”

“Mercer,” Polly says, “we are now going to hug. As a group. The experience will be very un-English. It will be good for you. Do not speak, at all, especially not in an attempt to diffuse the emotional intensity of the situation.”They hug, somewhat awkwardly, but with great feeling.“Well,” Mercer says, after a moment, “that was certainly—”“I will hit you with a shovel,” Polly Cradle murmurs.”

“You look gorgeous, Elle, and you don't act like a gorgeous woman does.""I don't? How do I act?""You act like an angel. But you fuck like a deomon. Don't you.”