“My throat tightened when I noticed a small tattoo of an origami rose on his upper arm. . . "Hey, Lenzi," he whispered, barely louder than the surf."Rose," I said as our lips met. "My name is Rose.”

“Do people in the twenty-first century still dance?"My heart beat thundered in my ears, far louder than the slow music. "Um," I said, barely able to swallow, my throat had gone so dry. "Sometimes.""How about now?" he asked.And then his strong arms were encircling my waist, his breath soft against my cheek as he gently whispered my name: "Susannah. Susannah....”

“Rose took my nose, I suppose,” he repeated; the bubble of phlegm in his throat made a disgusting crackle. “And it really blows.”

“She cut her eyes to the woods and whispered, "We're not alone, remember?""I don't care who hears it. I love you!" His voice rose louder this time.She frowned. "Nothing's changed.""Everything has changed," he said.”

“A White RoseThe red rose whispers of passion,And the white rose breathes of love;O the red rose is a falcon,And the white rose is a dove.But I send you a cream-white rosebudWith a flush on its petal tips;For the love that is purest and sweetestHas a kiss of desire on the lips.”

“Again, Homer felt the nudge in his ribs, and Mr. Rose said, mildly, ‘You all so uneducated – Homer’s havin’ a little fun with you.’When the bottle of rum passed from man to man, Mr. Rose just passed it along.‘Don’t the name Homer mean nothin’ to you?’ Mr. Rose asked the men.‘I think I heard of it,’ the cook Black Pan said.‘Homer was the world’s first storyteller!’ Mr. Rose announced. The nudge at Homer’s ribs was back, and Mr. Rose said, ‘Our Homer knows a good story, too.”