“But it's Posy, Gale's five-year-old sister, who helps the most. She scoots along the bench to Octavia and touches her skin with a tentative finger. “You're green. Are you sick?”“It's a fashion thing, Posy. Like wearing lipstick,” I say.“It's meant to be pretty,” whispers Octavia, and I can see the tears threatening to spill over her lashes.Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, “I think you'd be pretty in any color.”

“It's meant to be pretty," whispers Octavia, and I can see the tears threatening to spill over her lashes.Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, "I think you'd be pretty in any color."The tiniest of smiles forms on Octavia's lips. "Thank you.”

“I think you'd be pretty in any color."-Posy to Octavia”

“Then Octavia drops to her knees, rubs the hem of a skirt against her cheek, and burst into tears. "It's been so long," she gasps, "since I've seen anything pretty.”

“I think it's very pretty.Can it be pretty if no one thinks it's pretty?I think it's pretty.If you're the only one?That's pretty pretty.And what about the boys? Don't you want them to think you're pretty?I wouldn't want a boy to think I was pretty unless he was the kind of boy who thought I was pretty.”

“I looked at her, with her hair spilled out on the pillows and the warmth of her body warming mine. And I thought, god-dang, if this ain't a heck of a way to be in bed with a pretty woman. The two of you arguing about murder, and threatening each other, when you're supposed to be in love and you could be doing something pretty nice. And then I thought, well, maybe it ain't so strange after all. Maybe it's like this with most people, everyone doing pretty much the same thing except in a different way. And all the time they're holding heaven in their hands.”