“see you tomorrow!" she would say with this sort of brave little smile, waving her hand with a mitten on it which is for some reason more helpless and sweet looking than a glove.”

“Love's language is imprecise,fits more like mittens than gloves.”

“Her smile fades. "I cant use any of it.""You can use some of it," I say, because I want the smile back and because its true. She can do more than she thinks she can. For some reason, she just wont try. "And I can be your other hand when you need it.”

“The very feel of her hand, even through its glove, was reassuring; it was the sort of hand, he thought, that children would like to hold in the dark.”

“Traffic crawlsCell phone callsTalk radio screams at meBut through my tinted windowI see a little girlRust red minivanShe’s got chocolate on her faceGot little hands and she waves at meYeah, she smiles at meWell hello worldHow you beenGood to see you my old friendSometimes I feelCold as steelBroken like I’m never gonna healAnd I see a lightA little hopeIn a little girlHello world”

“She saw the light again. With some irony in her interrogation, for when one woke at all, one's relations changed, she looked at the steady light, the pitiless, the remorseless, which was so much her, yet so little her, which had her at its beck and call (she woke in the night and saw it bent across their bed, stroking the floor), but for all that she thought, watching it with fascination, hypnotised, as if it were stroking with its silver fingers some sealed vessel in her brain whose bursting would flood her with delight, she had known happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!”