“…you know how hard it is to be utterly, drop dead gorgeous," she said, twirling that shiny instrument of torture she liked to call her hair.”

“Julita was being spinned like a top by a drop-dead-gorgeous Dominicano. Later she told us that he’d asked for her number and she had given him the wrong one.“Why did you do that?” I asked her.“He smelled married,” she said.”

“...Death," she said, as her hand dropped away, " is how you know you were alive in the first place.”

“They were both totally laughing, and he was twirling her, and her hair was flying around like she was in a shampoo commercial. Seriously. She could have sold conditioner to a bald man the way she looked out there.”

“When is your birthday?” (…)Wide silver-gold eyes swung to him. “You don’t know?”“No.”Pouting, she twirled a strand of her hair. “How can you not know?”“Do you know mine?” he asked.“Of course I do. It’s the day you met me.”

“And then she began to think about Lady Glencora herself. What a strange, weird nature she was,—with her round blue eyes and wavy hair, looking sometimes like a child and sometimes almost like an old woman! And how she talked! What things she said, and what terrible forebodings she uttered of stranger things that she meant to say!”