“Her heart began to ache, and she felt the numbness slip away. Misery welled up inside her. She clamped down on it, trying to hold onto the deadness that had blanketed her emotions for the past few days.”

“Naif felt his tentacle caress her again, This time, though, he was holding something as well. It was rough hessian and the smell from it was putrid, like something dead a few days. She tried to push him away but his tentacle ws strong and persistent, not withdrawing until he'd wiped the cloth over her.”

“An obstreperous urge seized him. he desperately wanted to hold on to her, to support his slipping heart, and when it slipped away, he realized she had gone away, incarcerating herself in his thought with her smile and unblemished innocence.”

“Her true heart, however, was buried so far inside her, so gone beneath the vast blanket of her lies and deceptions and whims. Like her jewels now beneath the snow, it lay hidden until some thaw might some to it. She had no way of knowing, of course, whether this heart she imagined herself to have was, in fact, real in any way. Perhaps it was like the soldier's severed arm that keeps throbbing for years, or like a broken bone that aches at the approach of a storm. Perhaps the heart she imagined was one she had never really had at all. But how did they do it, those women she saw on the street, laughing with their charming or their ill-tempered children in restaurants, in train stations, everywhere around her? Any why was she left out of the whole sentimental panorama she felt eddying around her every day of her life?”

“Well, she had had the most wonderful summer; she had got that anyhow tucked away up the sleeve of her memory, and could bring it out and look at it when the days were wet and she felt cold and sick.”

“Her heart ached as though a knife had quietly slipped between her ribs.”