“Most had faded to a light jade by now...all except Chandra, I noted, with more than a little satisfaction. She was still a dazzling Day-Glo emerald, and I gave a little finger wave from across the room. She merely returned the finger.”

“She saw the light again. With some irony in her interrogation, for when one woke at all, one's relations changed, she looked at the steady light, the pitiless, the remorseless, which was so much her, yet so little her, which had her at its beck and call (she woke in the night and saw it bent across their bed, stroking the floor), but for all that she thought, watching it with fascination, hypnotised, as if it were stroking with its silver fingers some sealed vessel in her brain whose bursting would flood her with delight, she had known happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!”

“I give a little wave back because it's more mature then giving him the finger.”

“As she gets sicker, she fades a little more, until I am afraid one day I will wake up and not be able to see her at all.”

“Passion such as hers is all consent, asking little in return. I had merely to enter a room where she was to see her face take on that peaceful expression of one who is resting in bed. If I touched her, I had the impression that all the blood in her veins was turning to honey.”

“Despite the post-it note with her phone number on it, shes already little more than a fading memory. They all are.”