For the record, sports cars have ridiculously small trunks. I know that for a fact, since I found myself stuffed into one.

My fantasy was that I was the long-lost switched-at-birth child of wealthy eccentrics. One day, they would find me and take me away from the gypsy caravan that was my life, and give me hot meals, a decent dress, and a pony.

A bride should look chaste—not caught.

Those were my last words. To be listed in some book of quotations, alphabetically after Wilde:Wilde, Oscar (of the wallpaper in his bedroom): “Either it goes, or I do.”Wilding, Adelyn (of the gum splooches on the sidewalk): “Ditto.”

Didn’t being out in the storm scare you?”“Try a couple of high-summer prairie storms in a trailer,” she mused. “That either makes you terrified of them or indifferent to them.

They were ancient history. They were so ancient they made ancient history look modern. Well, okay . . . maybe medieval.

[T]here are not many words in the English language more lacklustre and less sexy than ‘employer'.

. . . I don’t believe that celebrity spokeswomen get their hair colour from a box.

His discontent stemmed from dislike rather than appreciation for the hardness growing in him, and the fear that in another ten years he would not recognise himself. The fear that in another twenty, he would not even remember that any doubt had disturbed him. And that in some distant future, age and death would find him—the first person in history to utter on his deathbed: I wish I’d spent more time at the office.

What do you know about insurance fraud?”I knew discussions of it were not likely to lead to sex.