28 Quotes About Sandra-newman

He laughed and came forward impulsively to kiss her—his affection a potent thing, a flourish of light. She was smiling, her tears feeling fresh on her face. He smelled of sweat and roses. She felt it in the palms of her hands, in her loins. It was right. It was Southampton she had wanted all along.

She was alone like a cat, like an owl, as if she walked unobserved, out of her human life.

But he was left with the all-too-familiar feeling of having been infected by insanity, of being drawn into someone else's insanity.

She added in a tight, defensive voice that she panicked when she did jobs, it gave her existential panic. She could do them for a while, but it felt like darning socks in a burning building. Time was running out and . . . Did he ever get that?

It was beautiful to be heartbroken, it was as pleasurable as a thing could be. But pointless.

Sweet wine from Spain and gossip from France; the sun in the windows dimmed, sorrowed prettily as the day declined, until the candles' light was mirrored in the glass. Their dabbling flames were like guesses at a feeling, the hearth's fire like the feeling itself. It was a beautiful pastime she had missed; hours that had stepped light-footed on Emilia's memory and passed on.

Her sadness was an ecstasy, a guilt, an assignation.

It was night, and the sky spreading into a rain that fell like darkness visible, a glistering where there was no light.

It was a white pandemonium with the wrong past.