“So this was the rest of his life. It felt like a party to which he'd been invited, but at an address he couldn't actually locate. Someone must be having fun at it, this life of his; only, right at the moment, it wasn't him.”

“Sometimes he felt like he'd been gone his whole life--in exile, away from the place he was supposed to be, and that, soldier-like, he was pining to be returned. Homesick for a place he'd never been.”

“Percy hated tests. Since he'd lost his memory, his whole life was one big fill-in-the-blank. He was _____, from _____. He felt like _____, and if the monsters caught him, he'd be _____.”

“Suddenly he saw himself as others in the crowd must surely see him; a silent, solitary figure, standing apart from the rest. He looked out at the hoardes of singing, laughing people and felt more alone than he'd ever felt in his life. Was this how it was going to be then? Was this who he was? A man apart from his fellows, making the journey through life alone?”

“From now onwards he must not only think right; he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he must keep his hatred locked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and yet unconnected with the rest of him, a kind of cyst.”

“By saying it aloud, he thought perhaps it might seem silly to him. That perhaps he'd been swept up in the moment with Genevieve and that maybe he wasn't quite to the point of love yet. But he was dead wrong. The words felt right on his lips. Saying them aloud only confirmed what his heart already knew. He was well and truly in love with the lass, and there was naught but contentment within him at the whole idea.”