And I Plan To Write

Perhaps The Story In The Book Is Just The Lid On A Pan: It Always Stays The Same, But Underneath There's A Whole World That Goes On - Developing And Changing Like Our Own World.

The Tent In Which She First Met Him Had Smelled Of Blood, Of The Death She Did Not Understand, And Still She Had Thought Of It All As A Game. She Had Promised Him The World. His Flesh In The Flesh Of His Enemies. And Much Too Late Had She Realized What He Had Sown In Her. Love. Worst Of All Poisons.

Dustfinger Still Clearly Remembered The Feeling Of Being In Love For The First Time. How Vulnerable His Heart Had Suddenly Been! Such A Trembling, Quivering Thing, Happy And Miserably Unhappy At Once.

Let's Run Away To Venice, And Hide Out In An Old Movie Theater. We Can Dye Our Hair Blonde, So No One Will Ever Find Us!

There Was Another Reason [she] Took Her Books Whenever They Went Away. They Were Her Home When She Was Somewhere Strange. They Were Familiar Voices, Friends That Never Quarreled With Her, Clever, Powerful Friends -- Daring And Knowledgeable, Tried And Tested Adventurers Who Had Traveled Far And Wide. Her Books Cheered Her Up When She Was Sad And Kept Her From Being Bored.