“Jailbait," he declared, leaping up. "You're a saint. A goddess, even.”

“It's beautiful," I said for what had to be the third time. "It's just awfully...elaborate."Lysander made a disgusted sound and threw up his hands. "It should be elaborate! You're meant to be a goddess!"I had no idea how to reply to that, but Nick saved me. Leaping to his feet, he said, "And you do look like a goddess, Sophie." He took my hand and pulled me off the platform, spinning me. "See? Embrace your goddessness."Nick may have been a weirdo and a half, but I chuckled.”

“Mischief nodded. 'It's true,' he conceded. 'You're in the company of eight world-class thieves,' he said, not without a little touch of pride. 'Saints we are not.' But then,' said Deaux-Deaux, 'who is?' he thought on this. 'Besides saints.”

“Hey,” he said softly. He moved closer to the bars, pressing his face between them. “I always said you were jailbait, but this is ridiculous.”

“Don't fool yourself, my dear. You're much worse than a bitch. You're a saint. Which shows why saints are dangerous and undesirable.”

“Feed the hungry and you're a saint, ask why they are hungry and you're a communist.”