It’s not the dead even. They’re gone. Nothing you can do about that. It’s what’s left behind – the echo. These woods you’re walking through. There are some old timers who think a sound echoes...

She had golden blazing sun kissed hair, which hung down in loose, lazy spirals, a heart shaped pouted mouth, which was pink tinged with violet blushing, wide, spangled blue eyes that glimmered sparks to flicker...

Fear kills instead of protecting. It murders dreams, hopes, relationships and or physical well being.

Miracles are like murders. After the first one, each becomes easier than the last for, with each success, the miracle-worker’s certainty in himself becomes stronger.

It’s not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it’s the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.

It was as though committing murders had purged him of lesser rudeness. Or perhaps, Starling thought, it excited him to see her marked in this particular way. She couldn’t tell. The sparks in his eyes...