“I think that I can count on the fingers of one hand the times you've actually said the word ‘women' and not replaced it with an epithet referring to female genitalia." "Hey, he's not that bad," Warren said. "Sometimes he calls them cows or whores.”

“Querida, it's alright," he said. "No one has hurt me in years.""Hey, you're supposed to be my brother," I said, trying to joke. "Brother's don't hold their sisters' hands or call them querida."Seb smiled, his hazel eyes starting to dance. "Yes, they do," he said. "This happens all the time.""Well I guess things are different in Mexico then," I said. "Because in America, no way. And I'm an American.""But you're in Mexico now," he pointed out."Right. And you're saying here, boys holds hands with their sisters and call them sweetheart.""Oh yes. We're very friendly, we Mexicans.”

“Sometimes he dug in his garden; again, he read or wrote. He had but one word for both these kinds of toil; he called them gardening. "The mind is a garden," said he.”

“Five syllables," Apollo said, counting them on his fingers. "That would be real bad.”

“That's three times you've hurt my feelings in one conversation," he said a bit gruffly."Three times?" I really hadn't mean to be rude.He counted on his fingers. "You don't like my music. I'm a soccer dad. And I'm good-looking... 'for a rock star'. ”

“Women" he said in disgust. I wasn't sure whether we was referring to me or nuns.”