His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.

The peace of the gardens and the kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence into his restless heart.

He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place.

Shite and onions!

Deal with him, Hemingway!

And his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes

Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are... Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead.