“Does it help?” he asks. “The e-mailing.”She nods. “A tiny bit. It’s strange. You’re writing a letter to someone who’s never going to read it, so it kind of frees you up a bit.”

“What about e-mail? It is e-mail, yes?" Morley asked, leaning even closer. "E-mail is a kind of electronic letter. It travels through the air." He seemed very smug that he knew that. "Well, not exactly, and would you please either BACK OFF or go find a shower?”

“Writing is work. It’s also gambling. You don’t get a pension plan. Other people can help you a bit, but ­essentially you’re on your own. ­Nobody is making you do this: you chose it, so don’t whine.”

“Do you think you’re special, Perry?” he asked seriously.I winced. “A little bit. Maybe more in the Special Olympics kind of way.”

“The house felt strange. Altered. Like someone had come in during the day and shrunk all the furniture just a tiny bit.”

“And you're not the kind of girl I want."Surely he couldn't mean the fact that I was Mexican. From what I knew of Hardy, there wasn't a bit of prejudice in him. He never used racist words, never looked down on someone for things they couldn't help."What kind do you want?" I asked with difficulty."Someone I can leave without looking back.”