“I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain.”

“I fell asleep to the scent of my wolf. Pine needles, cold rain, earthy perfume, coarse bristles on my face.”

“the air just went cold, as it did those times before, and started sticking to my skin, on my arms and legs and face, everywhere. I had seen a marble statue in a museum, a well built man doubled over throwing something, and the feeling reminded me of him. It was as if I was starting to be made of marble.”

“October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces.”

“He touches my face, his thumb smoothing over my lips. "You're my June, Tru.”

“It has been my face. It's got older still, or course, but less, comparatively, than it would otherwise have done. It's scored with deep, dry wrinkles, the skin is cracked. But my face hasn't collapsed, as some with fine feature have done. It's kept the same contours, but its substance has been laid waste. I have a face laid waste.”