“...Don't be surprised, and I say it darkly, do not be surprised if you lose your Luke in this cause; perhaps Mrs. Dudley has not yet had her own mid morning snack, and she is perfectly capable of a filet de Luke á la meuniére, or perhaps dieppoise, depending upon her mood; if I do not return" -and he shook his finger warningly under the doctor's nose- "I entreat you to regard your lunch with the gravest suspicion." Bowing extravagantly, as befitted one off to slay a giant, he closed the door behind him.”

“I wish you did return my regard," he said. "More than I have ever wished anything in my life! Perhaps you may yet learn to do so: I should warn you that I don't easily despair!”

“And then she knew. No vision had ever terrified him. Never. In seventeen years. It was as if his own life were at stake. But he didn't See his own future. He only saw other's. She suddenly had a terrible feeling that she knew exactly whose future he'd Seen. Her voice was a whisper. "Do I get hurt?" His face contorted, but he didn't say anything. "Oh my god. Do I die?" He closed his eyes. "Oh." The air rushed out of her lungs on that one word. She was going to die. Luke's voice was tight, tortured when he said, "We gotta go." He bent down to pick up Sera's bag again, then headed out the door. Sera looked down at her feet. Their book bags lay there. She should probably pick those up, she thought. Luke was already on the porch, waiting. She reached down and grasped the bags, then woodenly stepped outside. Luke stared at her a moment, searching her face, then reached around her and locked the door. He started down the steps, but her voice stopped him. "Luke?" He turned to look at her. She was going to die. She knew she was going to die. But she couldn't stop herself from asking even though she already knew the answer. "Have you ever had a vision that didn't come true?" she said. "Ever?”

“He was going to enjoy pressing his little scheming hostess into improprieties she'd not soon forget. He didn't need a storm to make his point; he had his own powers of persuasion-and he'd use them all on her.He led her to the library, to the table holding the sherry. "Will you do the honors?" He leaned forward and added in a low voice, "Or perhaps you'd like us to do it together-your hand under mine, your fingers wrapped around the neck of the decanter as we-"Color flooded her cheeks, and she said in a breathless voice, "I will be glad to pour us some sherry-though I'm surprised you wish for some more.""It is wretched, but your cook has ruined my palate.When I return to London, I won't know good port from bad, burned meat from raw, and don't begin to talk to me about soups.”

“GO to the western gate, Luke Havergal,— There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,— And in the twilight wait for what will come. The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some,— Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call. Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that ’s in your eyes; But there, where western glooms are gathering, The dark will end the dark, if anything: God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, And hell is more than half of paradise. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies— In eastern skies. Out of a grave I come to tell you this,— Out of grave I come to quench the kiss That flames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go. Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,— Bitter, but one that faith can never miss. Out of a grave I come to tell you this— To tell you this. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. Go,—for the winds are tearing them away,— Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go! and if you trust her she will call. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal.”

“She nodded, grabbed her purse out of the drawer and skedaddled, walking like she was on a catwalk, one foot in front of the other, her ass swaying under the skirt of her expensive, tailored suit.Bitch. I thought again, watching her go.“No comparison,” Luke said after the door closed behind Dawn and I turned to him.“Excuse me?”“Dawn’s a man eater. You’re not. No comparison,” Luke answered and I didn’t know how to take that.“Is that good?”The half-smile came back.“Most men prefer to do the eating.”Holy fucking cow.”