She had magic in her pink palms and her cheeks lit to a lovely flame, like the thrilling flush of children after their cold baths in the evening.

Many times he had tried unsuccessfully to let go his hold on her. They had many fine times together, fine talks between the loves of the white nights, but always when he turned away from her into himself he left her holding Nothing in her hands and staring at it, calling it many names, but knowing it was only the hope that he would come back soon.

She was overstrained with grief and loneliness: almost any shoulder would have done as well.

He found something that he wanted, had always wanted and always would want -- not to be admired, as he had feared; not to be loved, as he had made himself believe; but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable...'very few things matter and nothing matters very much

He kissed her because it came about quite naturally; he found sweetness sleeping still upon her lips, and felt that he had never been away.

He drew her very tenderly close and their lips met like starved hearts.

He was tempted to lean over and kiss away her tears.

She lent him her lips again for the faint brush of a kiss.

He could not remember when anything had felt so young and fresh as her lips. The rain lay, like tears shed for him, upon the softly shining porcelain cheeks. She was all new and immaculate, and her eyes were wild.