“AHA!" interrupted Officer Shrift, making another note in his little book. "Just as I thought: boys are the cause of everything.”

“In the office, Michael sat behind our father’s desk, clicking away at the computer with his right hand, and making notes with his left. Ambidextrous freak.”

“The artist is a collector of things imaginary or real. He accumulates things with the same enthusiasm that a little boy stuffs his pockets. The scrap heap and the museum are embraced with equal curiosity. He takes snapshots, makes notes and records impressions on tablecloths or newspapers, on backs of envelopes or matchbooks. Why one thing and not another is part of the mystery, but he is omnivorous.”

“There was a loud shuffling above. A line of redcoats took their position at the edge of the ravine and aimed down at the rebels. "Present!" the British officer screamed to his men. "Present!" yelled the American officer. His men brought the butts of their muskets up to their shoulders and sighted down the long barrels, ready to shoot and kill. I pressed my face into the earth, unable to plan a course of escape. My mind would not be mastered and thought only of the wretched, lying, foul, silly girl who was the cause of everything. I thought of Isabel and I missed her. "FIRE!”

“He nods, his eyes on her like he's reading a book he's just getting to the end of and can't be interrupted.”

“Now may this little Book a blessing beTo those that love this little Book, and me:And may its Buyer have no cause to say,His money is but lost, or thrown away.”