“He was right – she was beating herself up about hurting his feelings. The girl was a classic martyr. She’d totally been born in the wrong century. She should have lived back when she could have gotten herself fed to some lions for a good cause.”

“She had fooled herself into believing she was living the life she’d always dreamed of living when all she had been doing was hiding from it.”

“There was a dumb misery about him that irritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand that made her heart beat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself that she was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has been in the wrong.”

“If she had been born a hundred years later, she would very likely have been encouraged to be angry, told she had a right to express her anger and her sorrow and her bewilderment and her rage, and generally to disintegrate. These were not the expectations of her friends and family. Nothing could have been further from her expectations of herself. Instead, she threw herself into serving others.”

“There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good . . .” His voice trailed off in the middle of the sentence.Laura found herself caught in the intensity of his gaze and muttered the end of the rhyme. “. . . She was very, very good, and when she was bad . . .”Gabriel finished what he had started, grinning at his own wit. “. . .She was better.”Laura’s eyebrows arched as she hid a quick smile. “That’s not the way I learned it.”Gabriel picked up his fork and dug back into his salsa-spiced eggs. “If you’d been a boy, you would have.”

“And yet she could not forgive herself. Even as an adult, she wished only that she could go back and change things: the ungainly things she’d worn, the insecurity she’d felt, all the innocent mistakes she made.”