“Loss makes the soul sick”

“Rafe hadn't sworn in front of a lady since he was fifteen and said something unacceptable in his mother's hearing. Though he'd been twice her size already, she grabbed him by his hair queue and dragged him to her boudoir, where she proceeded to wash his mouth out with lavendar soap. He had been vilely sick, to this day couldn't bear the scent of lavendar, anhd watched his tongue around females of all ages and social rank.”

“Please don’t be angry with him. My mither didn’t love him, and he’s still trying to make her.”

“Crying had made her want a shoulder on which to rest her head, arms to hold her. She'd wasted too many tears alone in her room, her garden, walking along the shore, praying for God to send her someone to share her sorrows along with her joys.”

“I expect she'll walk down the aisle to her groom with a book in her pocket.”

“So what about me? Would I always have to find a high horse? The moral relish, the rising above, the being in the right, which can make me flaunt my losses.”

“Loss could be used as a measure of beauty in a woman.”