“My shoulders sagged. Really, is it too much to ask that I be able to come home from a long day of work and relax? Oh, no. I have to come home and read a bunch of letters written to the love of my life by his fiancée, who, if I am correct, had him killed a hundred and fifty years ago.Then, as if that is not bad enough, he wants me to explain the Vietnam War.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Mr. Trevor read my letter?” demanded Lady Buxted indignantly. “Your secretary?”“I employ him to read my letters,” explained his lordship.(Alverstroke)“Not those written by your nearest and dearest!”“Oh, no, not them!” he agreed.”

“Today, my love, I am too tired to write for you. You will find in your heart a letter, several pages, full of silence. Read it slowly. The light of this day wrote it for me. In it, it si just about you and the rest coming to me each time I look to you, far away, hundreds kilometers from here.”

“I promise you this. I’ll love you until the day I die even if I have to live without you. And if it’s fifty years from now, you come home, Nick Anderson. Do you hear me? I’ll be waiting on you.”

“How could I relax when I had to welcome Christian into my home, the one who had wounded me deeper than anyone, the one who haunted my days and held me in my dreams?”

“Richard wrote a diary entry in his head.Dear Diary, he began. On Friday I had a job, a fiancée, a home, and a life that made sense. (Well, as much as any life makes sense). Then I found an injured girl bleeding on the pavement, and I tried to be a Good Samaritan. Now I've got no fiancée, no home, no job, and I'm walking around a couple of hundred feet under the streets of London with the projected life expectancy of a suicidal fruitfly.”