“Oh, but this,' I think I say, 'is perfect! This is all I have longed for! What are you gazing at? Do you suppose a girl is sitting here? That girl is lost! She has been drowned! She is lying, fathoms deep. Do you think she has arms and legs, with flesh and cloth upon them? Do you think she has hair? She has only bones, stripped white! She is as white as a page of paper! She is a book, from which the words have peeled and drifted--”

“She says it has nothing to do with what you look like, or what you have. It has only to do with what you think of and what you do.”

“What should I do?" I ask."You should have a really good excuse. And maybe you should cry -- girls do that, right? And possibly be gravely injured. If she has to fix you, she might go easier on you.”

“I am part of what she thinks is her illness, a symptom of which she thinks she has been cured. She, on the other hand, is what I was looking for.”

“I think," Ella said, "that what a woman does or doesn't do should be up to the woman, and she should make up her own mind and not change it when the wind starts to blow. I think a woman should be who she is, not what others expect her to be. And if she wants to go to a dance looking for a man, she should go and not feel like she has to explain herself. And if she want to have her own farm, she should do that and not feel like she has to explain that, either. And…I think you should be quiet now.”

“Then she probably would have waved back," Max said. "And it might be a he.""Ha! Not likely," Lucia said. "Didn't you notice them?""Them what?" Max asked."Her... you know. She has breasts, Max! What do you think that is on her chest?""I think it's a pair of crossed arms," Max said.”