“She put her head down on the table and cried all the tears that she knew she should have cried in the past year and a half. But they weren't ready then, they were now.”

“Sometimes when she told stories about the past her eyes would get teary from all the memories she had, but they weren't tears. She wasn't crying. They were just the memories, leaking out.”

“She was crying now, quietly, inhaling so vehemently it was as if she were trying to suck the tears back into her eyes.”

“She didn't have any intention of crying. The tears caught her by surprise. She knew she was behaving like a child, that she was being terribly foolish and emotional, but she didn't know how to stop herself."Judith?" His thumb brushed away one of the tears on her cheek. "Tell me why you're crying.""There weren't any flowers. Iain, there should have been flowers."Her voice had been so soft, he wasn't certain he understood her. "Flowers?" he asked."Where weren't there any flowers?"He waited for her to explain, but she stubbornly remained silent. He squeezed her."In the chapel.""What chapel?""The one you don't have," she answered.”

“In a great gasp, puts her head in her hands again and cries as if her throat were a cave, as if the howling winds came from her belly, she cries like a storm that will never end.”

“She cried because she'd had such high, high hopes about the Wheelers tonight and now she was terribly, terribly, terribly disappointed. She cried because she was fifty six years old and her feet were ugly and swollen and horrible; she cried because none of the girls had liked her at school and none of the boys had liked her later; she cried because Howard Givings was the only man who'd ever asked her to marry him, and because she'd done it, and because her only child was insane.”