“You'll have to pardon me," the magus said. "But with your country at war I can't see how any of it really matters."Standing up, Eugenides pulled the papers from the magus's hands. "It matters, because I can't do anything, anymore, for this country, and it matters," he yelled as he threw the papers back to his desk, "because I only have one hand and it isn't even the right one!" Turning, he picked an inkpot off the desk and threw it to shatter on the door of his wardrobe, spraying black ink across the pale wood and onto the wall. Black drops like rain stained the sheets of his bed....Eddis sighed. "Will you sit down and stop shouting?" she asked."I'll stop shouting. I won't sit down. I might need to throw more inkpots.”

“Why did you come if not to murder my king?""I came to steal his magus.""You can't," said the magus in question."I can steal anything," Eugenides corrected him, "even with one hand.”

“I stand, walk over to him, sit down on his bed, put my arms around him, hug him. He hugs me back strong and I can feel the shame coming through his arms. I am a Criminal and he is a Judge and I am white and he is black, but at this moment none of that matters. He is a man who needs a friends and I can be his friend.”

“But how do you stop being afraid?" He asked, and his hands made little jerks up and down."I guess you don't really ever stop," I said, "But you just have to go on. Like Stanly. You just have to get up in the morning and see what happens. Even though it is hard.”

“Alex sat playing with the remote, turning it over in his hand. A long moment passed, and then he cleared his throat."Look... I'm sorry," he said."What I said i that first night- " He stopped and sighed, tossing the remote onto the bed. Scraping his hand through his hair, he said, "When I first found out, it just threw me,OK? For a lot of reasons. I don't-I don't think you're like the angels. And I've been acting like a jerk. I'm sorry." A smile grew slowley across my face. "Yes you have," I said "But apology accepted.”

“There was a sergeant at a desk. I knew he was a sergeant because I recognized the marks on his uniform, and I knew it was a desk because it's always a desk. There's always someone at a desk, except when it's a table that functions as a desk. You sit behind a desk, and everyone knows you're supposed to be there, and that you're doing something that involves your brain. It's an odd, special kind of importance. I think everyone should get a desk; you can sit behind it when you feel like you don't matter.”